


The Inspector's Florist

by Rhenaes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexuality, Cosette has many parents, Fake Dating, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, Phone Calls & Telephones, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Valjean just really likes Javert's voice, also Javert likes stars per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17205443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhenaes/pseuds/Rhenaes
Summary: Jean Valjean runs a flower shop. One day, Javert pays a visit, and the two men realize they know each other. But how? Eager to discover their connection, they exchange numbers, and their lives begin to intertwine.





	1. It Begins With A Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> In all honesty, this was supposed to be a short meet-cute that spiraled into... this. Much bigger. It's still in process, but most is written, and I hope to update on a weekly basis. Enjoy!

“Excuse me, sir?”

Valjean looks up to see a man standing in the doorway of the shop. He smiles awkwardly. “Yes, how may I help you?”

“I’m arranging a funeral for my father,” the man says, walking up to the counter. “I was hoping your shop would be able to supply flowers for the service.”

“Certainly,” Valjean replies. He glances around. “Unfortunately, Zephine seems to be out right now, and she usually handles things like that. Funerals and weddings and such. Would you mind waiting?”

“It’s not as though I have anywhere to be today,” the man replies, shrugging.

Valjean nods. “What name would you like the order to be under?”

“Javert.”

“Thank you.”

Then the two of them stand awkwardly in the shop. Valjean tilts his head, frowning. Javert seems awfully familiar, but he can’t quite place the man’s face.

Javert seems to notice him staring. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Valjean clears his throat. “Have I met you before?”

Javert scoffs. “I’ve never been in here before. I doubt it.” Then he frowns. “But come to think of it, I do frequent the shop next door. Maybe…”

The two men look at each other for a long moment, then Valjean's breaks out of his stupor. He blinks and leans on the counter.

“You mentioned that the funeral is for your father. I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, attempting conversation.

“It’s okay.” Javert stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He was a dick anyway. I’m only doing funeral arrangements for him because nobody else wants to.”

“Oh. Okay.” Valjean blinks. He didn’t expect such a blunt response.

They start to settle into silence again, but the door opens and Zephine comes in. Valjean catches her eye, opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up a finger.

“Of course, ma’am. We’ll have the delivery there by 2:00. I have to hang up now.” She clicks the phone off and smiles. “How can I help?”

Valjean gestures to Javert. “This gentleman is looking to make arrangements for a funeral. The name on the order should be Javert, and I’m sure the two of you will work out the details. You’ll help him with it, right?”

“Of course. Right this way, sir.” Zephine gestures, starting to walk away, and Javert follows. Valjean watches them.

“Oh, and Mr. Valjean,” Zephine calls over her shoulder, “the Collier-Fabre wedding has asked that they get their delivery at 2:00 instead of 3:00.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Valjean mumbles under his breath. “I’ll make sure it gets there.” He looks up, and for a moment, he catches Javert’s eye. The man has a strange expression on his face.

Valjean turns away. Best to think nothing of it.

 

Javert drums his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the cars in front of his own, but his mind isn’t on the traffic.

 _Valjean_. He knows that name. from a police report, maybe. God knows how many he’s filed. Or perhaps from earlier, back when he worked as prison guard.

He glances at the traffic. It won’t be moving any time soon. He slips his phone from his pocket and presses the home button. “Siri, look up La Petit Fleurs flower shop.”

_“Okay, I found this on the web for petty flower shops.”_

“Goddammit,” Javert hisses, hitting the home button. He glances up at the closest traffic light. Still red. He pulls up a search engine, then hastily types _la petit fleurs flower shop_ into the search bar. The first result is a website for the flower shop. Javert clicks it, though not before quickly looking at the light again, and looks down at the phone. There’s a search bar at the very top of the page.

A car behind him honks, startling him, and he looks up to see that the light has changed. And that the cars in front of him have moved. Cursing, he presses his foot on the gas pedal again.

The name continues to tug at his mind. Valjean. He knows it. And the man did say that he looked familiar. Javert conjures up an image of his face again—white hair, hazel eyes.

Lord, he was handsome.

“Shut up, Javert,” he grumbles to himself. He’s going to buy the flowers for his father’s funeral, pay the shop, and never enter it again. It’s entirely his father’s fault that he’s even doing this. Why couldn’t the sorry man have died just a few years earlier?

The shine of Javert’s phone catches his eye. Might as well track down Valjean and see if he knows him. And if Javert doesn’t, he’ll leave the matter alone. He pulls into the first parking lot he sees, grabbing his phone. He types the name _Valjean_ into the search bar, then presses enter. A short list of employees comes up.

_Jean Valjean, manager_

“Jean Valjean,” Javert murmurs to himself. The name is even more familiar now. “Where do I know you from?”

He’s getting needlessly worked up about this and he knows it. But he doesn’t have anything else to do, and he’s never been able to resist a case he can solve. Or one he can’t, for that matter.

He dials a familiar phone number. It rings twice before anyone picks up.

“Dumont?” Javert asks. “Hey. Yeah, it’s Javert. What’d you do to get stuck with answering the phone?”

“What do you want?” Dumont’s voice is exasperated and a bit muffled.

“I need you to check if we have anything on a man named Jean Valjean. I’d do it myself, but.”

“God, Javert. Chabouillet and Gisquet forced you onto leave for a reason.”

“Just this one time,” Javert says. He doesn’t plead; he’s never pleaded for anything in his life. Though this comes the closest. “I’ll do your paperwork for the week after I get back.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Dumont—“ Javert starts, and then he hears the click of the other line hanging up. He sighs and turns his phone off.

He’ll just have to find out who Jean Valjean is himself, then.

 

• • •

 

“Fantine,” Valjean asks, stirring sugar into his coffee cup, ‘is there a man who comes around here regularly?”

It’s late now, around 10:00, and both Valjean’s flower shop and Fantine’s cafe are closed. Fantine is cleaning up while Valjean drinks coffee left over from the days work.

Fantine glances up from wiping down the counter. “You’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.”

“Sorry. His name’s Javert. Really tall, longish hair…” Valjean gestures as if comparing his and Javert’s height. “Really tall.”

“Oh yeah. He comes in here pretty often. Why?”

Valjean peers down at his coffee cup. “No reason.”

Fantine hops over the counter, snickering. “Come on, Jean. There’s gotta be a reason.”

“Well, there isn’t one.”

“Are you into him?”

Valjean turns red. “What? No. Look, he came into today to buy stuff for a funeral, and I thought he looked familiar. He said he comes here a lot. So I thought maybe that’s how we know each other.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Fantine looks at him. “You sure you’re not into him?”

“Fantine.”

“You’ve got that sort of smile thing that you do sometimes, when you like something but don’t realize it. Kind of a far away look.”

“ _Fantine_.”

She raises her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” Valjean mumbles. “It’s just that I know him from somewhere, and I can’t figure out _where_. I don’t think it was your shop, either.”

Fantine shrugs. “Do you want to know more about him?”

“Why not?” Valjean says, somewhat wearily.

She hops up onto the counter she’s just cleaned. “He always orders black coffee and never buys any food. He smells like smoke sometimes. Oh, and he’s a cop.”

Valjean freezes. “What?”

“I said he’s a cop.” Fantine glances at him. “Oh. Jean, It’s okay. You served your time a long time ago; you don’t have to worry about it. Was I even born?”

“Mm. How old are you?”

“28.”

“God, you’re young,” Valjean mutters under his breath. “Okay, 55 minus 28… actually, yes. You were born that same year.”

Fantine snickers again. “You’re so old.”

“I am _not_. I’m 55.”

“Old,” Fantine says teasingly. “C’mon. Your hair is completely white.”

“From stress,” Valjean defends. “Is Steve Martin old?”

“Yes! He’s 73!”

Valjean sighs. “I’m 55. That is not old, that’s middle aged. And we were talking about Javert.”

“Yeah. The cop that you’re suddenly very interested in, Jean.” Fantine raises her eyebrows, grinning.

Valjean sighs and rests his head in his hands.

 

A few days later, Valjean is in his shop again, arranging a display of tulips. The bell on the door rings as it, presumably, swings open.

“Just a moment,” he calls.

When he turns around and jumps off the step stool, he sees Javert.

For a moment, Valjean freezes, recalling the conversation with Fantine. Then he rearranges his face into a smile. “Hello, Javert. How may I help you today?”

Javert opens his mouth, pauses, then speaks. “My mother has suddenly decided to involve herself in the funeral planning. She’s picked out flowers different from the ones originally decided on. Is it possible to change the order?”

Valjean furrows his brow. “Considering it was made only a few days ago… when you need the flowers?”

“April 26th.”

“A week. Okay.” He rests his weaker leg on the step stool. “I believe that we can make that arrangement, but it’ll need to be done as soon as possible, and you’ll have to pay a fee. Zephine’s taken the day off, so you’ll have to work with me.”

Javert nods. “Neither of those is a problem.”

“I just have to put the step stool away—“ Valjean gestures “—and then I can help you. Zephine showed you to the room previously, right?”

“Yes.”

“You can go in if you like. I have to track down whatever book she put your orders in.” He smiles apologetically. “It might take a while.”

“That’s all right. I’m on leave right now, so I haven’t got anywhere to be.” Javert leaves for the room. And, for some reason, Valjean finds his eyes tracking him.

 

It takes them less then an hour to work out the details.

By the end, Javert has crushed his fingernails into his palm with such force he worries the gouges might begin to bleed. He hates lying; always has, always will. His mother wants nothing to do with the funeral. Or with his father, for that matter.

But this was the only believable reason he could think of to meet Valjean again.

 _And determine where you know him from_ , he reminds himself.

The room they’re in is sparsely decorated, with a couch and an armchair, a table in front of them. Valjean smiles at him from across the couch. He taps a pen on the open page before him, already filled with spidery handwriting.

“So, mainly white lilies, as well as some white orchids and blue hydrangea,” he says. Javert nods. “That should work well together. And you’re sure you can afford the change?”

“Yes,” Javert says, lying again.

Valjean closes the book. “All right. And hopefully your mother won’t change her mind about the flowers,” he says, and smiles. “I think we’re finished, actually.”

Suddenly, Javert realizes that he hasn’t found anything else out about this man besides the fact he has nice handwriting. His heart quickens. He can’t have come here only to spend an extra 70 dollars, which he doesn’t have, and lie about his father’s funeral. But Valjean is walking back out into the main area of the flower shop, and Javert, somehow, is following him.

“Wait!”

Valjean turns around, already at the counter. “Yes?”

“I…” Javert struggles to think of something. “This is… a very nice shop, and somehow I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it. How long have you been here?”

Valjean smiles. “Quite a while. Fourteen years, actually.” He turns, places the book on a shelf, and spins back to face Javert in one elegant movement. “It’s odd you’ve never noticed it.”

“I’ve never really focused on anything other than work, honestly.”

“You’re a police officer, right?”

Javert frowns, eyes narrowing. “How do you know that?”

“I…” Valjean turns red. “I know the woman who runs the shop next door, and you said—you said that you go there a lot. I still couldn’t figure out where I knew you from, so I asked her.”

“Hmm.” Javert folds his arms over his chest, suddenly suspicious for reasons unknown. “Well, you’re right. I’m an inspector.”

“An… inspector!” Valjean moves his arms as though he doesn’t know what to do with them. He finally hooks them behind his back. “That’s. A very high rank.”

“Not really. And you’re nervous about something.” Javert tilts his head, intrigued. “What?”

“Nothing.” But the man’s voice is higher than it was before.

Javert dismisses it. He takes a step closer to the counter. “Anyway. Did you have a shop elsewhere?”

“What?” Valjean squeaks, and Javert rolls his eyes.

“Before this. Did you have a shop before you opened this one? It seems—“ he casts a look over the shop “—very well run.”

Valjean lets his arms drop. His nervousness seems to have passed. “No, actually,” he says, leaning against the counter. “I worked in a church rectory for a number of years, and before that…” he laughs, but it’s brittle. “I don’t really have time to unpack that.”

Valjean gestures to him. “What about you?”

“Me?” Javert pauses. “Oh, I’ve been an inspector for a while. I’ve had every rank beneath it, of course. I’ve even been a prison guard. Not for long, though—just four years.”

“Oh.”

Valjean leans across the counter, and Javert leans forward subconsciously as well. And then, the door on the bell rings. A man’s voice calls across the shop. “Mr. Valjean!”

“I have to go,” Javert says quickly. Valjean furrows his brow, but Javert is already turning round. He hurries past a man with grey hair and out the front door.

And for some reason, he feels oddly disappointed.

 

Valjean watches Javert tear down the street, confused. He stands straight again.

“Who was that?” Fauchelevent asks. His eyes follow the police inspector as well.

“No one, Fauchelevent,” Valjean sighs. “That was no one.”

 

• • •

 

“Chabouillet—“

“No, Javert.”

“Sir, you don’t understand,” Javert protests. He’s using the phone while driving, _again_ , but he’s too annoyed to care. Jean Valjean was supposed to be a simple mystery, something he’d solve while on leave.

“I understand perfectly, Javert.” Chabouillet’s voice, on the other end, is somewhat exasperated. “You’re on leave, but you’re so accustomed to overworking yourself that you can’t bear _not_ to.”

Javert doesn’t dispute this point. Instead he says, “This isn’t for a case. I just need someone to see if there are any files on a man named Jean Valjean. Or to let me into the precinct so I can check for myself.”

“No. You have eight days left on your leave. You will not step foot in the precinct until they’re over, and you will not call anyone in the office. Do you understand?”

“I don’t,” Javert says, resisting the urge to dig his fingernails into his skin again.

“I know you do.”

Javert huffs. “I understand, sir,” he growls into the phone, and hangs up before Chabouillet can. He flings the phone across the car. It’s a shitty model anyway.

Then he slams a hand down on the side of the dashboard. “It’s a shitty model, and you just spent 70 dollars extra on flowers, dumbass,” Javert hisses to himself.

He’s going to hit something if he doesn’t calm down soon, and pat of him doesn’t want to. His apartment is still a few minutes away. So he pulls over, again. This time it’s into a parking lot that has some office building at the back of it.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Restlessly, angrily.

Chabouillet’s right. Javert has overworked himself so much, so often, that he can’t even take a twelve-day, mandatory leave without jumping on the first semblance of a case he finds. He yanks the cigarette pack and lighter from inside the glove compartment, then flings open the car door and steps outside. Javert lights it with shaking hands. He nearly became addicted as a young man. Now he only smokes when he’s stressed.

Which means he smokes at least once a week.

He glances up at the sky. The sky is grey, crowded with clouds. There won’t be any stars out tonight. Javert huffs, ripping his gaze away.

He was only supposed to get flowers for his father’s funeral. He doesn’t even _like_ flowers. And La Petit Fleurs is right next door to the  cafe he frequents, and he figured it would be the easiest place to go.

He didn’t account for Jean Valjean. And, Javert reminds himself, he still hasn’t discovered the connection between the florist and him.

He drops the cigarette and crushes it under his heel, then gets into his car again. He might as well go home.

 

It’s been nearly a week since Javert fled the flower shop, and Valjean has put the incident out of his mind since then. He’s tried to put the inspector out of his mind, too, but he can’t quite seem to.

But now, he strides into Fantine’s cafe. He’s quite tired, despite it only being 3:00 in the afternoon, and he desperately needs coffee. Honestly, he prefers tea, but he’ll admit that coffee’s caffeine does wonders for him.

The shop has a mild crowd, but isn’t full like it is in the mornings or on weekends. There’s only two people in line. Valjean hums to himself while he waits, tapping a finger on his leg.

“Papa!”

He turns around to see Cosette running up to him. A backpack hangs off her shoulders. He sweeps her up. She laughs, hugging him, and then he puts her down gently.

“How was school?” Valjean asks, and Cosette beams.

“Great! Éponine says she wants to shave her head, and that Ms. Waugh has a John Mulaney vibe. I don’t know what that is, though.”

Valjean inhales deeply. “Good God, her parents let her watch John Mulaney.”

“What is that?” Cosette asks, but Valjean shakes his head.

“He’s a comedian, but you’re a little too young to watch him. What else happened?”

“A lot.” Cosette peers past him. “But I want to go sneak some pastries from Dahlia, okay?”

“Okay.” Valjean waves as she dashes away. “Have fun!”

Then the man in front of him moves away, and he steps up to the counter. Fantine is there, smiling. When she sees it’s him, she immediately drops her customer service smile.

“What’ll it be, Jean?” she asks, though not unkindly.

“One coffee, please. One creamer.”

“Thank God for you and your simple orders,” she says, turning away. “I had a woman ask for a latte with, like, thirteen variations on it. Cosette, please get out of the biscotti.”

Valjean smiles to himself. Fantine hands the coffee to him a minute later, and he pays in full. Then he looks around, trying to find a seat.

His eyes snag on a familiar face. And, suddenly, that face looks up to see him.

“Valjean!” Javert says in surprise, at the same time Valjean says “Javert!”

“Can I sit down?” Valjean asks, gesturing to the empty chair at the table.

Javert shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

Valjean sits on it cross-legged, placing his coffee in front of him. “You’re an inspector. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I’m on leave.” Javert pushes his own cup with a single finger. “Forced leave, actually. My superiors think I’m overworking myself, so they’ve been looking for a way to make me stop. Apparently my father’s death was the perfect opportunity.”

“ _Are_ you overworking yourself?” Valjean asks.

Javert raises an eyebrow. “Apparently.”

Valjean peers at him, trying to determine whether or not he’s making a joke. He quickly gives up. “So, you said you come here a lot.”

“Yeah. Do you?”

Valjean frowns. “Actually, not as often as I’d like. The flower shop keeps me rather busy.”

“I know what that’s like,” Javert says. And he chuckles a little, though he doesn’t smile. Valjean feels something warm in his chest.

He takes a sip from his coffee cup, then leans forward. “What’s the weirdest case you’ve ever worked on?”

“What?”

“I said, what’s the weirdest case you’ve ever worked on?” Valjean repeats.

“Oh.” Javert strokes his chin, almost pensively. “Hm. Do you want to hear about a gory one, or just a weird one?”

“Weird. I have coffee to drink.”

Valjean doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Maybe it’s because he has time to kill until his break is over; maybe it’s because he’s bored. Or maybe it’s because he’s intrigued by this inspector and his unknown familiarity.

Javert drums his fingers on the table. “The weirdest case. I think it was the one where the guy was keeping both a bear and cocaine in his basement.”

“What?”

“He had a bear in his basement. Illegally, of course. One day he bought an assload of cocaine and thought it would be a good idea to store it in the same basement as the bear. Needless to say, the bear got into the cocaine.” Javert takes a long sip. “It wasn’t particularly difficult; I mean, he called us on himself. But it was weird and slightly terrifying.”

Valjean leans back in his chair. “That’s… yeah. Just weird.”

“Also incredibly stupid,” Javert offers.

“And stupid.” Valjean curls his hands around the coffee cup. “How’s your mother?”

“My… oh. She’s doing fine.”

“How’s she taking your father’s death?” Valjean asks, as gently as possible.

“She’s taking it fine, considering he hightailed it when I was three years old.”

Valjean frowns. “Why was she so invested in his funeral, then? I mean, she changed the entire flower order.”

Javert looks confused for a moment, and then realization dawns on his face. “Oh. She’s a bit of, ah, a control freak?”

“Javert,” Valjean observes, “you’re digging your fingernails into your palm. Are you all right?”

The inspector glances down at his hands. “Excuse me for a moment.” He gets up. Then he dashes away, though he leaves the coffee cup sitting on the table. Valjean sighs and leans back in his chair.

He can’t get it out of his mind, no matter how hard he tries. How does he know Javert?

“Maybe he arrested me,” Valjean mumbles to himself, though he knows it’s not true. He remembers exactly what his arresting officer looked like, and it wasn’t Javert. He wasn’t Valjean’s parole officer, either.

He has no idea how he is supposed to figure this out.

He doubts the answer will simply come to him one day. He’s going to have to get to know Javert to figure out here their paths crossed. But how?

Suddenly, Valjean remembers what Fantine said to him days ago. _“Are you into him?”_

He cringes immediately. He hates the thought of it, of making anyone think that he’s romantically interested in them when he’s not. But Javert’s father’s funeral was yesterday. Unless Valjean visits the cafe every day and by some miracle does at the same time as Javert, he doesn’t have any other way.

“I hate this,” he mumbles, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”

He scribbles his phone number down on a napkin.

“What are you doing?”

Valjean startles. Then he looks up, and up and up, to see Javert. He flushes.

“I—I was—here.” Valjean awkwardly shoves the napkin at Javert. “This has my phone number, if you want to call me. Ever. It’s not the flower shop’s, it’s my personal one. I have to go.”

He gathers up his coffee cup and hurries outside, heart hammering.

“It’s just to figure out the connection, Jean,” he whispers to himself. “Nothing else. He’s probably not even going to call you.”

 

Later, at home, Javert studies the napkin. It’s wrinkled from having been stuffed in his pocket, but the handwriting is still perfectly legible. He smoothes the side of the paper.

God, is Valjean actually interested in him?

Javert looks away from the napkin, holding his chin in a hand. Normally, he’d never do anything like this, if only for the fact he’s managed 47 years of life without a single romance. He doesn’t intend to start now. And he’ll be deceiving Valjean the entire time. But he has to figure out how he knows Valjean. It’ll torture him until he does.

Javert opens up the contacts app on his phone. Slowly, he punches in the phone number, and then the name _Valjean_. The phone creates the contact, beeping. He sets it down on the table beside him.

Javert closes his eyes, and he takes a deep breath.

He’s going to have scars in the shape of his fingernails by the time this whole affair is done.

 

• • •

 

A few days pass before Valjean hears from Javert. In the meantime, he worries. Perhaps the inspector won’t contact him, and he’ll never figure this out. Maybe he’s straight. And/or homophobic.

Then, on April 30th, he’s sitting in the cafe when he gets a text from an unknown number.

_Valjean?_

_It’s Javert._

Valjean smiles and types out a short text. _hi!_

_Do you want to go to dinner sometime?_

He pauses, eyes on the message. He hadn’t realized that Javert would be so forthcoming. An odd feeling, as if he’s just done something creepy, crawls up Valjean’s spine. Part of him wishes Javert isn’t interested in him, so he wouldn’t have to deal with this.

 _okay_ , he texts back anyway. _when are you free?_

_All day Friday._

_are you okay with 6:30?_

_Sure. Where?_

Again, Valjean pauses. He never goes out to eat, preferring to cook at home. Large groups of people, particularly restaurants, make him anxious. _i don’t know any restaurants_ , he types.

Javert takes a few minutes to reply. _How about Moretti’s?_

_that sounds good. moretti’s at 6:30 on friday._

_It’s a date._

He takes a deep breath. He’ll only do this for as long as it takes to figure out where he knows Javert from. Then, Valjean will break it off with him as gently as he can.

“What are you doing?”

Valjean jumps, then looks up to see Simplice. She’s standing in front of his table, still in her work uniform.

“Nothing,” he says, flipping his phone over. Simplice raises an eyebrow.

She pulls a chair out and sits down. “Who were you texting?”

Valjean’s face heats. “I wasn’t texting anyone. Your hair looks nice, by the way.”

She runs a hand over her cornrows. “Thanks. I just got them done. But you’re avoiding the subject, Mr. Jean.”

“I told you, you don’t have to call me mister.” He fiddles with the phone. “And you’re sounding like Fantine.”

“Sim’s sounding like me?” Fantine calls from the counter. She vaults over it, walks over, and sits down. “Excellent. What she’s saying?”

Valjean doesn’t answer, just ducks his head down.

Suddenly Fantine’s hand darts out, snatching his phone. Valjean almost grabs her arm, but she’s too quick, and she jumps out of her chair to read the screen.

“Give that back!” Valjean protests.

Simplice nods. “Please do. It’s Jean’s phone, and you shouldn’t take it without permission.”

“Thank you!”

But a grin has crept over Fantine’s face, and it only grows as she reads the texts. Valjean turns redder. Finally, Fantine looks up, her expression gleeful.

“You were _lying_ ,” she says mischievously. “You are into him!”

“I am not!”

“Who are we talking about?” Simplice asks.

Fantine hands her the phone. “Javert. You know, the cop who comes around here a lot. Jean has a date with him.”

“What?” Simplice says, immediately shirking her honor code and looking down at the messages.

“It’s not a date.”

Fantine snorts. “He literally wrote the words ‘it’s a date.”

“That’s because he thinks it’s a date,” Valjean mumbles.

“What do you mean?” Simplice asks as she hands the phone back to him. Fantine sits down again, and an expression of shock flits across her face.

“Jean Valjean,” she says, leaning forward, “are you leading him on?”

“No. Maybe. Yes.”

Fantine tsks. “That’s very immoral of you. I feel like if he finds out, he’ll arrest you.”

“He can’t legally do that, love,” Simplice reminds her.

Valjean rests his head on the table. “I want to find out where I know him from, and this seems like the best way. I have a bigger problem anyway. Do either of you know what Moretti’s is?”

Fantine raises her eyebrows.

“What?” Valjean sighs.

“Moretti’s is a _very_ classy Italian restaurant in downtown. Like, the waiters all wear suits. It’s been there for ages.” She peers at him. “How didn’t you know existed?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t gone out to eat for decades.”

“Good lord,” Simplice whispers.

“I doubt you have anything nice enough to wear to it,” Fantine observes.

“I have my yellow coat.”

Fantine shakes her head. “Your yellow coat is old and ugly. You can’t wear it.”

Valjean frowns. “Then what am I supposed to wear?”

Both Fantine and Simplice grin. “We’ll help you figure it out,” Simplice says.

 

Valjean ends up taking a cab to Moretti’s. He wouldn’t normally, and he almost had a panic attack hailing it, but Fantine made him do it. She said that he might end up drinking. He doubts he will.

He tips the driver heavily, then steps outside.

Even the outside of Moretti’s is imposing.

Inside, quiet chatter fills the air, music played softly over it. Valjean swallows a feeling of nervousness as he walks to the hostess station.

“Excuse me,” he says politely. “Can you help me?”

The young woman working as hostess looks up, smiling. “Do you have reservations for tonight?”

“Reservations?” Valjean asks. His nervousness returns.

“He’s with me.”

Valjean swivels round. Javert is walking through the doors, dressed in an impeccable gray suit. He holds up two fingers. “Reservation for two, under the name Javert.”

“Of course, Inspector. Just let me check.” The hostess does something on her screen, then nods. “It’s right here. Let me show you to your table.”

She grabs two menus, then motions for them to follow her.

Valjean pushes his anxiety away for the third time this night and lets the hostess lead them to a table. They sit. The hostess sets the menus on the table. “Your waiter will be here soon. Have a good meal, inspector,” She turns to Valjean. “Sir.”

Then she leaves.

“How does the staff know you?” Valjean asks, opening his menu.

Javert chuckles dryly. “My superiors always choose Moretti’s to hold office celebrations and whatnot. I’ve worked in the same precinct for the past sixteen years, so the staff knows me by now.”

“Ah.”

“You look nice.” Javert gestures to Valjean’s outfit. “It suits you.”

Valjean glances down at his clothes, feeling his face warm. He bought an entirely new outfit for tonight; navy slacks and jacket, a green tie, and nice brown shoes. Fantine supervised the entire time. “Thank you. You look rather nice yourself.”

“Oh, I…” the inspector’s gaze falls to the table. “Thanks.”

“Are you not used to be complimented?”

“I’m not, actually.”

Valjean frowns.

The two of them then sit in silence, deciding on the menu. But Valjean finds it’s not awkward—it’s actually bearable. Still, panic is slowly rising in his throat. There are far too many people here for him to be comfortable.

“Are you all right?” Javert asks eventually, after they’ve ordered their food. “You’re pale.”

Valjean shrugs. “I’m… not. I don’t know. I don’t deal very well with crowds.”

“Hm.” Javert glances over his shoulder. “Waiter, can you come over here?”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping. Hopefully. Ah, waiter, can you please bring Mr. Valjean a bottle of wine?” Javert asks.

The waiter nods. “What kind?”

“I don’t know.” He glances at Valjean. “Do you have a preference for any?”

Valjean shrugs helplessly. “Red? I don’t really drink.”

Javert sighs, then names some type of wine, and the waiter goes to fetch it. Valjean stares at him.

Finally, Javert catches on. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You ordered wine. For me. To calm me down.”

Javert sighs. “Look, I’m new at this. I don’t really have much experience, in the romance department, so forgive me if I’m doing something wrong.”

 _I’m_ _so sorry for leading you on_ , Valjean thinks.

“I bet that you know more than me about this, so…” Javert taps his fingers. “Tell me if I’m doing something wrong. I don’t want.. to.”

“Javert?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing that thing with your fingernails again.”

He glances down at his hands. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Valjean nods, smiling, but part of him feels incredibly ashamed of himself. Javert is honestly trying hard to please him.

Why is he making the man waste his efforts on him?

 

By the time Valjean’s had a few glasses of wine, the feeling has vanished. He smiles much more freely, and his panic is gone.

He supposes it’s the alcohol. He’s not had much, and he isn’t quite drunk, but he isn’t sober either. He feels far more comfortable in Moretti’s right now then he ever would be without any wine in his system.

“You know,” he says, gesturing with his fork, “you wouldn’t believe some of the customers we get, how difficult they are.”

Javert raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah! There was a woman who came in last week and said she needed flowers for her daughter’s wedding. So Zephine asks her when they’ll need them by, and she says in four days. Zephine then says that we might be able to do it, but we’ll have to charge her extra since it’s on such short notice. The woman then claims to be my sister and threatens to get her fired. She actually said to Zephine that she’d be fired by the end of the day.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Valjean nods. “Not all my customers are as pleasant as you.” Then he turns red. “Oops.”

“Why oops? We’re on a date.”

“That is…” Valjean pauses. “Yeah.”

Javert snickers.

“What?”

“That is yeah.”

“Oh, come on,” Valjean protests. “I’m not used to drinking. I haven’t drunk alcohol in years. You can’t blame me for being incoherent at times.”

“And yet,” Javert says, resting his chin in his hand, “that was rather eloquent.”

“It comes and goes.”

Valjean swirls what’s left of the wine in his glass. “I know I said, earlier, that you looked nice. But your hair looks nice. I miss the bangs, though.”

He isn’t quite sure what he’s saying.

Javert touches the side of his head. “Trust me, no one else does. Thanks, though. I had to teach myself how to gel hair.”

“You put gel in your hair for _me_?”

“I had to do something. It’s Moretti’s.”

Valjean smiles. “This has been really fun tonight, actually.” Then he leans forward, pouring wine into Javert’s empty glass.

“Why’d you do that?” Javert asks, and his cheeks fill with color.

“I think I’m gonna do a toast.” _What am I doing?_ But Valjean lifts his own glass in the air anyway, and searches his mind for something to toast to. Javert raises his glass cautiously.

“To life, Inspector,” Valjean says, almost in a teasing manner. “To yours and to mine.”

They clink glasses, then each throw back the little wine in their respective glass. And for some reason, Valjean doesn’t want to stop smiling.


	2. A Confession, A Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Javert and Valjean's relationship deepens, Javert comes upon a startling revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning for what’s pretty much a suicide attempt in this chapter.

_To life, Inspector. To yours and to mine_.

Javert shifts in his seat, his mind still on Valjean’s words. By the end of the night, Valjean had been a smiling, blushing mess, though it can mostly be attributed to the wine. Which Javert gave him.

It wasn’t a date, Javert reminds himself. He refuses to call it a date, because it wasn’t. No matter what Valjean thinks. Good lord, Javert will have to break this off. Moretti’s was two nights ago, but Javert can’t get it off his mind. Did he act romantically?

He hopes to God not. He definitely doesn’t want to give Valjean more of a false impression than he already has. All he did was gel his hair back and wear a suit, because that’s what he always wears to Moretti’s. Javert has no idea why he suggested the place. He hates it. But he doesn’t know any other restaurants that aren’t cheap takeout joints, and Jean Valjean seems more dignified than that.

Valjean had looked so handsome in navy blue.

“Shut up,” he hisses to himself. He’s not supposed to be attracted to Valjean in any way, he’s just supposed to figure out their connection.

At least he’s off leave now.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He unlocks it to see it’s a text from Valjean.

_do you want to meet again?_

_Sure_ , Javert types.

_no moretti’s._

He smiles wryly to himself. Now that he knows Valjean hates crowds, he can work around that. He pauses, trying to think of something to do.

_Coffee date, maybe?_

_that sounds nice. nothing at fantine’s place, though_.

“Dear lord,” Javert mumbles to himself. “Why can’t he use capitalization?”

Allard, the officer whose desk is across from him, looks up. “Who can’t use capitalization?”

“No one. My florist.”

“You have a florist?”

Inwardly, Javert groans. The other officers have a suffocating string of gossip, jumping like vultures on any new piece of information.

“Guys, the Inspector has a florist!”

Javert tries to ignore her as he tries to think of another coffee shop. But Dumont swivels around in his chair, twirling a pencil. “I didn’t know you liked flowers, Javert.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Javert props his feet up on his desk. _How about Panera?_ he types. “I used his shop to order stuff for my father’s funeral.”

_panera! sure._

“His funeral was like a week ago, though. Why are you still texting him?” Allard asks.

“Still gotta pay.” _That sounded kind of sarcastic. What’s wrong with it?_

The two officers exchange glances. “You have never been late for anything in your life,” Dumont observes.

“So?”

Valjean’s response is longer than he expected. _it wasn’t. fantine was reading the texts over my shoulder without my permission and made fun of it. which one do you want to go to?_

Javert snickers. He might have to get to know Fantine, if only to find out more about Valjean. _I don’t know. Can I pick you up?_

The other officers have quieted, and he glances up. “What?”

“You just laughed,” Allard says, a look of confusion on her face. “You never laugh.”

Javert growls. “Leave me alone.”

Then he turns his chair away from them.

_sure. what day?_

_I’m free on Saturday mornings._

_this sat, then. 9?_

_Works for me_.

Javert then turns off his phone & places it on his desk, screen up so he can see if Valjean texts him again. Then he turns back to his work.

For some odd reason, he finds himself looking forward to Saturday.

 

Valjean laughs as he puts his phone back in his pocket. “Fantine, what’s your problem with Panera?”

He’s sitting at a table directly beside thecounter. Fantine, however, doesn’t reply, having already walked away. Zephine leans over the counter instead.

“She has a weird problem with all chain cafes,” Zephine says in a loud whisper. She and Dahlia have jobs at both Valjean and Fantine’s shops. “I think she said it takes the individuality out of them.”

Valjean chuckles again. “Thanks, Zephine.”

 

They spend nearly an hour at Panera. Javert orders nothing but a black coffee, although Valjean buys tea and a croissant. Then they talk. Valjean is fascinated in particular by some of the odd cases Javert solves. However, Valjean does admit that the flower shop isn’t particularly exciting, aside from bratty customers. He talks about his family instead.

“Is Cosette your daughter?” Javert asks uncertainly at one point, and Valjean shakes his head.

“Not really. For a while when Cosette was really young, Fantine was in the hospital. I took care of Cosette when her mother couldn’t, and she grew so close to me that she calls me Papa.” Valjean smiles. “She’s a wonderful kid, really, although she has a habit of stealing pastries from the cafe.”

Valjean is so happy to talk about his family that it’s infectious, and Javert find himself smiling by the end of the meeting.

“You have an odd smile,” Valjean observes. “It’s nice.”

He almost laughs.

 

They begin to fall into a pattern. Every few days, Valjean or Javert texts the other, and they arrange a place and time to meet. Fantine teases Valjean about it. The other officers try to tease Javert, but he stops them with a cold glare.

Valjean’s style of texting infuriates Javert. The man refuses to text with capital letters, even when he writes proper nouns.

 _Shouldn’t your phone automatically capitalize?_ Javert texts one day.

 _it doesn’t_ , Valjean replies. _and i don’t really care_

Javert doesn’t talk to him for three days after that.

But he has to admit, Valjean is, somehow, growing on him. He looks forward to meeting with Valjean, even if he does feel ashamed about leading him on.

As for Valjean, he’s beginning to notice that Javert is starting to drop his guard around him. Though when they first met, Javert had been blunt, he had also been overly polite. Valjean hadn’t minded. But as they meet more and more, Javert is less formal. He’s more abrasive, complaining far more. And for some reason, Valjean doesn’t mind it either.

But every time Valjean receives a text or call from Javert talking about when they’ll meet next, he feels his guilt get a little heavier. Javert’s infatuation with him seems to be only growing—sometimes, Valjean will notice the inspector watching him with a dreamy expression, or Javert will linger a little longer than necessary when they hug goodbye. Valjean has to suppress panic attacks if he thinks about it too much. He has no idea how he’s going to end this charade.

Javert, one the other hand, rarely worries about ending it. When he does, however, he smokes more cigarettes than he usually would. Valjean is a kind man, he reminds himself. Surely he’ll understand. Javert doesn’t fear any retaliation.

What he does fear is disappointing Valjean.

• • •

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the court.” Javert finishes fastening the handcuffs over the dealer’s wrists. The man doesn’t reply, not that he’s really expected to. Javert shoves him in Lavigne’s direction.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Javert frowns. He rarely gets calls from anyone.

“Take care of him for a minute,” he orders Lavigne, checking the caller ID. It’s Valjean.

Javert sighs, stepping aside to take the call. “What do you want, Valjean? I was in the middle of a collar.”

“You have a car, right?”

“Of course I have a goddamn car.”

“Can I borrow it?”

Javert sputters. “Why do you need to borrow my car?”

“It’s my day to pick Cosette up from school, but my car’s in the shop and there isn’t anything else I can drive.”

“What time do you need to pick her up by?” Javert asks, rubbing his temple.

“2:30.”

Javert glances over his shoulder at Lavigne, who’s forcing the dealer into the back of the car. “That’s in half an hour. I need to get a drug dealer back to the precinct, and I doubt I’ll have time to drive all the way to your shop before you’ll need to leave.”

“Javert, hurry up!”

“Look,” Valjean says, “Cosette goes to Lyman. Can you get her? Please?”

“Can’t she stay after school?”

“It’s June 2nd, Javert. It’s her last day of school for the year.”

“God. I—“

“Inspector Javert!” Lavigne calls again, voice irritated.

“Fine, Valjean,” Javert hisses. “I’ll get Cosette.” He hangs up immediately, then walks over to the car. Lavigne is already in the driver’s seat, and Javert gets into the passenger’s with some reluctancy.

“Who was that?” Lavigne asks under his breath.

“Valjean needs me to pick his daughter up from school,” Javert grumbles, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “His car’s in the shop.”

Lavigne stares at him. “What?”

Javert crosses his arms. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

 

When he gets to the school, there’s a parking lot in front full of cars. Kids wait for their parents at the entrance to the school. Javert lets an irritated breath out through his teeth. He hates children. He scans the crowd for Cosette. She’s standing at one end, talking with a boy and girl.

“Excuse me, sir.” A woman stops him. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“I’m supposed to pick up Cosette Fauchelevent,” Javert replies.

“What’s your name? I need to know so I can check if her mother cleared you to pick her up.”

He pulls his badge out. “Inspector Javert.”

The woman sighs and lets him pass.

“Cosette,” Javert calls. She turns around, and a smile spreads over her small face. He wonders how she recognizes him. Valjean has only introduced them once.

“Mister Javert!” Cosette shouts. She runs over and grabs his arm, dragging him towards her friends. “This is Éponine and this is Marius.”

Marius waves. “Hi!”

“Hello,” Javert says uncertainly.

Éponine surveys him. “You arrested my dad once, I think.” She grins. “It was cool.”

He blinks. “All right.” Javert turns to Cosette. “I’m supposed to take you home.”

“Okay. See you guys later!” she says to her friends, waving. Then she turns and follows Javert to his car. When they get to it, her eyes widen.

“This is so cool looking!” Cosette exclaims. She touches the side. “How old is it?”

Javert opens the door to the backseat for her. “I don’t know. Older than you. Do you need a car seat?”

Cosette stares at him, face suddenly serious. “How dare you.”

“Okay, then,” Javert mumbles, getting into the front. He starts up the car.

“How come you’re picking me up instead of Papa?” Cosette asks as they pull onto the road.

“He called me and said his car’s in the shop.”

“Oh, yeah. He accidentally rear-ended that guy. He’s a really bad driver, did you know?”

“He did what?”

“Rear-ended a guy. You’re so much better at driving than he is.”

Javert smiles wryly. “Thanks, Cosette.”

“Is is cool being a cop?” she asks. “Do you see a lot of dead bodies?”

“I… I mean, I see some. It’s okay. It’s kind of cool.”

“You know, Papa doesn’t really like cops, but he really likes you, I think. He always smiles when he gets texts from you.”

“That sounds about right,” Javert says, suppressing a smile.

“When we get home,” Cosette says imperatively, “you should meet my moms. I think you’ll like them.”

“Okay.”

They drive on. Cosette chatters away in the back seat, and Javert listens.

 

Fantine glances around. Her shop is nearly empty, with only four customers in it, and one’s Valjean. He’s reading at one of the tables.

She walks around the side of the counter. “Hey, Jean, shouldn’t you be at the flower shop?”

“It’s my break,” he replies, glancing up. “I don’t want to be in my shop. Fauchelevent’s on delivery and Dahlia and Zephine are watching a Snapchat of Favourite keying some guy’s car.”

Fantine pulls her phone out. “She keyed Lincoln’s car?”

“I have no idea who Lincoln is.”

“Favourite’s latest fuckboy. Apparently he’s a dick, but also the heir of a very large estate he just came into.”

“Fantine, you have customers.”

She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. It’s been bothering her all day. “So?”

“I mean that you might want to watch your mouth,” Valjean says. “Swearing isn’t exactly good for business.”

Fantine shrugs. He sighs.

“Mama!”

She snaps her gaze over to the door. Cosette is running through it, dragging Javert along behind her. Fantine grins. She leans down and envelopes her daughter in a hug.

“How was the last day of school?” Fantine asks as she stands straight again.

“Great!” Cosette answers. “Mama, this is Inspector Javert. He’s Papa’s boyfriend.”

Cosette has been told that Valjean is in fact dating Javert, so she doesn’t unknowingly fuck up the situation. Fantine extends a hand. “Nice to properly meet you, Inspector. I’m Fantine, Cosette’s mother. I’m sure Jean has already explained our situation to you.”

“He has.” Javert shakes her hand, then glances at Valjean. “Cosette was very interested in my police work, by the way. I’m not sure how, but somehow it’s your fault.”

Fantine snickers as Valjean flushes.

“I’m sorry?” he says helplessly. “How was your collar today?”

Javert adjusts his coat sleeves. “Excellent. We’ve been tracking the dealer for weeks and finally nabbed him—he has a radius that covers almost half the city. It was very satisfying to read him his Miranda rights.”

Fantine glances around. “Cosette?”

The girl is gone. Then Fantine notices that behind the counter, a small hand is reaching for the macarons. “Cosette!”

She hurries over, pulling Cosette away. “Stop it. You know you’re not supposed to take sweets without asking.”

“Can I go visit Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Zephine?” Cosette asks.

Fantine sighs. “Sure. They’re at the flower shop, watching a video of Aunt Favourite key her ex-boyfriend’s car.”

“Awesome.” Cosette is out the door like a shot.

Fantine sighs again and looks over at Valjean and Javert. The two men are talking amicably, Javert leaning on the table with one arm. Valjean has put his book down.

Fantine smiles to herself and turns away.

• • •

A day later, she's in the cafe again, wiping down the front of the counter while giving dirty looks to the two customers still inside. It’s nearly seven, and that’s when she tends to close down. The bell on the door rings, and she looks up to tell whomever it is that they’re practically closed already. Then she pauses.

It’s Javert, not a customer. And he’s dressed somewhat nicely, which means he’s going on a “date” with Valjean. Fantine smiles.

“Hello, Inspector,” she says. “What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for Valjean, actually. His car’s still in the shop so he asked me to pick him up, but he isn’t at his shop. Do you know where he is.”

Fantine frowns. “I don’t know, actually. He was here and said he needed to get his wallet, but that was a bit ago.”

“Oh.”

She balls up the paper towel she’s been using and tosses it into the trash can. “Where are you two going tonight?”

“A diner at the edge of the city, actually,” Javert replies. “He said you recommended it since it doesn’t get much of a crowd.”

“Oh, I did?”

Then Fantine’s watch buzzes. _7:00_. She turns in the direction of the two people still sitting in the shop. “Excuse me, the shop is closed now. Please leave.”

“We’re not done yet,” one of the men says, looking at her with a snobbish air.

“It’s seven o’clock. This cafe closes at seven. Go somewhere else.”

The other man scoffs. “This is ridiculous. You shouldn’t be able to order us out the moment it turns seven.”

“She can, legally.”

Javert leans on their table, pushing his coat aside to reveal the badge on his belt. Fantine raises her eyebrows, but he continues. “I’d suggest the two of you leave. She has asked you politely too, and this store is technically closed. Go.”

“Why are you still here then, cop?” the first man snaps as they stand.

“I’m here for personal reasons, not as a customer. I don’t believe you have any reason to stay.”

The two men huff, but they leave anyway. Fantine smiles, surprised, as Javert adjusts his jacket and badge again.

“That was helpful,” Fantine remarks. “Why’d you do it?”

Javert glances after the two. “They were being shitty, and it wasn’t quite legal anyway. As the manager or owner or whatever of this property, you can tell them to leave. Don’t take it to indicate that I like you.”

She snickers. “I won’t.”

Suddenly, the door to the back of the cafe bursts open. Cosette scurries through, giggling. Valjean follows a moment later. She’s clutching something close to her chest, and he doesn’t look remotely happy.

Cosette slides under the gate of the counter and out into the main area of the cafe. Fantine makes no move to open it for Valjean. He slams a hand down on the edge and leaps over it anyway.

Fantine’s mouth twists. “You’re too spry for your age.”

“Shut up. Cosette, give me that back!”

“Never!” Cosette shouts, holding the thing high above her head. Valjean lunges forward. He barely manages to snatch it out of her grasp. Javert watches on coolly.

“I don’t need you taking my wallet, thank you very much,” Valjean snaps. “I’m paying for dinner tonight.”

Javert groans. “You constantly insist on paying. Stop.”

Fantine laughs. “He’ll always insist on paying. He paid for my tuberculosis treatment, _and_ he took care of Cosette. She calls him Papa now.”

“So he’s told me.” Javert sticks his hands in his pockets. “Valjean, are you ready to go?”

Valjean shakes his head. “Give me a moment to tuck my shirt in.” He scowls at Cosette, but there’s still joy in it, and she giggles in response.

Fantine sighs. “It’s only a diner, you two. You don’t exactly have to dress up.”

“If you have the opportunity to dress well, why not?” Javert replies, lifting his eyebrows. Valjean laughs, and Fantine shakes her head.

 

The diner is, as Fantine promised, blissfully uncrowded. Panic doesn’t crawl its up Valjean’s throat at any point, and he’s able to order his food somewhat comfortably. The food’s good, too.

At one point, after Valjean has finished his meal, he grabs some fries off of Javert’s plate. Javert doesn’t notice immediately, but when he does, he glares at him.

“Give those back,” Javert demands, leaning across the table.

He grins and simply holds the fries just out of his reach. “Never.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Javert huffs. He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. Valjean only smiles wider, then eats the fries.

It occurs to him that had Javert acted this way a month ago, Valjean would’ve been put off by his demeanor. And yet now he only finds it endearing.

When they walk outside, it has darkened already.

“Look,” Javert breathes, gesturing vaguely upwards. Valjean glances upwards to see that the sky is awash in stars, the night perfectly clear. He smiles.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. Javert doesn’t respond, and so Valjean looks over at him. The inspector’s head is tilted almost perfectly upwards. There is a look of deep awe and peace on his face.

“You like the stars, huh?” Valjean says quietly, and Javert gives the barest nod.

“I haven’t seen them this clearly for a while. Back when I was a prison guard it was the best—we were way out in the country, not close enough to any real city for much light pollution.”

“Which prison did you work at?” Valjean asks, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Javert gives a very familiar name, and Valjean’s heart almost stops.

“Interesting,” he says weakly, as they continue their way to the car.

“What do you mean?”

“I, uh…” he pauses. “In my youth, I knew that prison well.”

“Oh!” Javert smiles. “Did you work there as well?”

Valjean pauses, remembering the seven years he spent behind bars. “No,” he replies. “I”d drive by it on my way to work.”

Javert opens the the car door. “How unusual, that our paths came so close when we were young and we only met now.”

For the first time, anxiety bubbles up in Valjean’s chest. He has no idea how Javert will react if he finds out why he truly knows the prison. The man’s a police inspector, for God’s sake. But now Valjean has an idea as to how they know each other, and he doesn’t like it at all.

They drive back in silence, both pensive, but for wildly different reasons. Valjean fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket.

There are scars beneath the cloth, round his wrists, so thin that you can barely see them. But there nonetheless. They come from handcuffs, from being pulled around roughly by the chains.

He has no idea how many other convicts have scars like his—not many. Valjean’s aware that his own experience in prison was far more brutal than most. But he’ll never be able to forget. The scars are here as reminders, in a way.

“Shit.”

“What?” Valjean asks, pulling his cuffs down.

“I think—“ then Javert slams his foot on the brake. “There’s a fucking _tree_ in the road.”

The car rolls to a stop, and Javert leans back in his seat. “We’re going to have to call someone. A tow truck, maybe?”

“Hang on.” Valjean gets out of the car, and Javert follows him.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer, inspecting the tree. It isn’t a tree, not really, just a large bough that has taken up much of the road. He’ll be able to lift it, but it’ll be difficult.

Valjean shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the hood of Javert’s car, then kneels beside the bough. He wraps his arms around its middle, and then begins to lift it. It’s painfully heavy, but finally, he grapples it onto his shoulder, and begins to drag it off the road. Javert’s jaw has dropped, and he watches carefully.

Valjean groans, stepping backwards, and backwards, and backwards, until at last he’s pulled the branch out of the road almost entirely. He drops it with a heavy sigh.

Javert offers him his jacket back. “Valjean, that was incredible.”

“Thank you,” Valjean pants as they get back in the car again.

“I’ve really known only one other man who could do that.” Javert turns the car on, and they begin to drive again. “He was an inmate at the prison—24601. I don’t know his real name, only that the other prisoners called him Jean the Jack on account of his strength.”

Valjean’s blood runs cold.

“Really?” he gasps, tilting his head against the seat. “How interesting.”

• • •

Javert bolts upright out of a dead sleep.

_Fuck._

“Jean Valjean,” he whispers. “Jean the Jack. 24601.”

He remembers 24601 from his days as a prison guard well. The man had been strong, strongest by far among any man at the prison. Strong enough to earn him the nickname Jean the Jack. The other guards had told stories of his ferocity, and on occasion, Javert had seen for himself.

But mostly, 24601 had just seemed broken.

Javert struggles to compare Valjean to 24601. The two don’t even come close. Valjean is a gentle florist. 24601 was a man feared by both guard and prisoner alike.

“It can’t be. They can’t be the same,” Javert whispers.

He can’t completely certain. It’s been nearly two decades since he was a guard, and that’s long for anyone. One of the only ways he can determine whether or not he’s right is to look through prisoners’ files at the prison. And he doesn’t have that authority—he never has.

The other way is to ask Valjean.

Javert gets up and begins to pace. He _likes_ Valjean; the man’s nice enough. Javert couldn’t bear to learn he’s actually an ex-convict. And to ask him, openly, would almost surely ruin their relationship.

He growls. This question, their link, has been nagging at him for almost two months. He needs to make sure.

So Javert picks up his phone, and, with trembling fingers, calls Valjean.

 

Valjean struggles awake, groaning. His phone is ringing. As he picks it up, he glances at the time. 12:07.

There’s really only one person who would call him at this time.

“Hey, Javert,” he mumbles into the phone.

“Hey, Valjean.” Javert’s voice is wide awake and slightly panicked. “I need to ask you something.”

He frowns. “You okay?”

“I’m—I don’t know. Valjean, did you go to prison?”

ean freezes.

His fingers curl around the edge of his blanket. His heart pounds, and for a moment, he’s 27 again in the courtroom, hearing the judge read his conviction.

Of all the questions Javert could have asked him, this was the one Valjean expected the least.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I was convicted when I was 27 and released at 34.”

“Are you Jean the Jack?”

Valjean feels himself start to hyperventilate. “Yes. I mean, I was. I’m not Jean the Jack anymore, Javert, I’m not 24601. I’m Jean Valjean. That was twenty years ago and I’m not that man.” He twists the blanket in his hand. “How did you know, anyway?”

“I was a prison guard.”

Valjean wants to either laugh or cry. He can’t bring himself to do either. Of _course_ this would be their connection, of _course_ this would be how Javert knows him. Valjean had had the nerve to believe that maybe, he’d already paid for what he done many times over. That he had moved beyond the past.

And of course, someone has come back from that past to haunt him.

Why does that someone have to be Javert?

Valjean pulls his knees up under his chin. “I was 27, Javert, and my family didn’t have _any money_. I looked for work. But my sister was sick and her children were starving, they were _starving_ , and I couldn’t let them. I tried to rob a store and got caught, and they put me away for three years. A year in, I accidentally provoked a guard, he attacked me, and I fought back. They gave me another two years. It happened again by a different guard. He got nothing and I got two years. My sentence almost tripled.” He feels tears build up in his throat.

“I’m sorry for what I did, and I’ve done more than my time. I’m not that man anymore. I haven’t been for decades,” Valjean whispers. “Please understand.”

He wipes his eyes with a hand. It had been fine. He’d had _fun_ with Javert on those sham dates. He’d gotten over his fear of law enforcement as much as he could, and things had been going so well. Valjean had put the question of how they knew each other out of his mind, had put it down as one of those odd tricks life plays. And now, it’s all come crashing down.

He’d never even told Javert that the dates were fake.

“Javert?” Valjean whispers.

“I need to think,” the inspector says. The line goes dead.

Valjean sets his phone on the table beside him. Then he leans forward, covering his face with his hands, and begins to weep.

 

Javert continues pacing for a long time. Then he gets dressed, pulls his coat on despite the June heat, and goes for a walk.

He doesn’t know what path he’s taking, only that he needs to go _somewhere_. He retreats into his collar, puts his hands into his pockets. There are few other people outside at this hour, but those who are turn away from him. Good.

He ends up by the river.

Without quite realizing what he’s doing, Javert walks onto the bridge. He finds the railing and leans over it, staring down into the murky depths beneath him. They are calm. He lifts his eyes to the sky. The stars are out, shining, but for some reason, they seem distant. Cold, almost, though he knows that’s impossible. Javert sighs and grips the edge of the railing.

Why does Valjean have to be 24601?

All his life, Javert has lived by the principle that crime is, objectively wrong. His father was a criminal. Maybe that’s how Javert started down this path. Never has he wavered, and never has he seen any reason to.

But he has come to know Valjean. Javert has seen him tending to his flowers, has seen him care for little Cosette though he has no obligation to. He is kind to everyone, whether he knows them or not. But Valjean is also a criminal.

And yet, he is, objectively, a good man.

Javert inhales. Valjean is what should be a paradox. He is so _good_ , so tender. He is a criminal. But he is also a great man.

 _“He paid for my tuberculosis treatment,”_ Javert remembers Fantine saying. _“And he took care of Cosette. She calls him Papa now.”_

Javert’s handle on the bridge loosens.

He has gone through life with a flawed view, and he has affected everything he’s done with that view. How many people has he arrested who were just like Valjean in their youth? How many has he doomed to a flawed system, relying on a flawed mindset?

The memory of Valjean crying on the other end of the phone fills his mind.

Without thinking, Javert vaults himself over the railing, landing on a very thin strip of stone. He stares down at the water below. The river is still so calm.

What would happen, if he jumped? Who would care?

Maybe it’s better for him to. He will never drive Jean Valjean to tears again.

Javert loosens his grip on the railing. It is the only thing tying him to the bridge, and to life.

 _To life_.

In his mind’s eye, he sees Valjean lifting a wine glass, slightly inebriated. _“To life, Inspector,”_ he says teasingly. _“To yours and to mine.”_ His hazel eyes twinkle, and he smiles.

Javert gasps. He feels tears rolling down his face. He cannot kill himself tonight, if only for the fact that Jean Valjean will mourn him. He hoists himself back over the railing. Then he leans against it, holding his forehead in a hand.

“This is only for you, Valjean,” Javert whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

The corner of his phone peeks out of his pocket, and he hits the home button. The screen tells him that it’s just after one in the morning on June 7th.

Javert wipes his eyes a final time, and walks away from the river.

• • •

For several weeks, Valjean does not hear from Javert. He texts, but gets no reply, and his phone refuses to make calls for some reason. It worries him.

One day, when Valjean has almost resigned himself to never hearing from the inspector again, there’s a knock on his door. Though it’s around 9, a little late, Valjean is used to getting visits from Simplice and Fantine at odd hours. But when he opens the door, It’s neither.

It’s Javert.

“Can I come in?” Javert asks, and Valjean nods.

The door to Valjean’s apartment is in the back, and then one has to climb a set of stairs to get to his actual door. They walk up the stairs in silence, then into the apartment. Valjean shows him to the living room. Javert sits on the couch, elbows on his knees.

“Would you like some tea?” Valjean asks.

Javert shakes his head. “I’m more of a coffee man.

Valjean goes and gets his own mug of tea anyway.

When he returns, Javert still hasn’t taken off his coat. Which he’s wearing despite the June heat. Valjean sighs and settles on the armchair.

“Javert?” Valjean asks, and the man looks up sharply.

“I need to talk to you,” Javert says.”It’s not about your past,” he says quickly, after seeing the expression on Valjean’s face. “It’s about my behavior.”

Valjean lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for ignoring you lately; there’s been a very intense case I’ve had to work on. And I apologize for my behaviour during and directly after that phone call.”

Valjean sets his mug on the coffee table.

“I acted irrationally. In my life, I have always seen a direct divide between people who are good, and criminals. I think my father influenced it. But realizing your past, while at the same time knowing who you truly are, it… threw me for a loop. I realized that I have always been wrong.” Javert looks over at Valjean. “I went to the downtown bridge that night, and I was going to jump.”

“Javert…”

“But I didn’t.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t because I thought that you might cry if you ever found out, and I don’t want you to cry. And I remembered what you said when we went to Moretti’s. _To life, Inspector. To your life and mine_.”

Valjean opens his mouth, then closes it, reaching for Javert’s arm. Genty, he pulls his sleeve up. To Valjean’s relief, there are no wounds, or evidence of any.

“What are you doing?” Javert demands, pulling his arm out of Valjean’s grip.

“Checking for self-harm,” he replies.

“Oh.”

“I also have something else to say,” Javert says, adjusting his sleeve. “I’m not romantically interested in you.”

“Oh, thank God,” Valjean says immediately. “I thought I was going to have to break it off with you.”

Javert glances at him. “You felt the same?”

“Yes, actually. I gave you my number because I wanted to know how we knew each other.”

“And that’s why I asked you to dinner.”

Valjean smiles, and Javert smiles too. His wonderful, odd, toothy smile.

“I liked spending time with you, though,” Valjean muses. He takes a sip of tea. “It was nice to be in your company.”

“Yes. I want to talk to you about that, also. If you were willing to… to remain my friend, I would be deeply grateful to you. I’ve never really had a friend before, and knowing you has been… good.”

Valjean smiles wider. “I’d like that.”

“You would?” Javert asks, looking startled.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He folds his arms. “Because I just poured my heart out to you, and I’d be pretty pissed if you didn’t care about it.”

Valjean chuckles. “That’s the man I know.”

“I mean, I spent the entire drive over here practicing that speech.” Javert drums his fingers on the couch in his usual fashion. “I had no idea emotions were so exhausting. It’s ridiculous.”

“Literally everyone but you knows that.”

Javert smirks. “I’m behind on properly processing emotions by 47 years, I know.” He glances around. “You have a nice place here, Valjean.”

“Not an obvious change of subject at all,” Valjean murmurs. “It’s nice?”

“Are you blind?”

He looks around. “I guess it is. I’ve never really noticed. And besides, it’s too big for just me. It’s really meant to be lived in by at least two people.” He laughs. “Imagine if our fake dating had gotten to the point where we moved into together.”

Javert laughs too, deep and throaty. “That would’ve been hell. Having to fake romance constantly.”

“Yeah.”

They settle into silence, just sort of looking and smiling at each other. Suddenly, Javert extends his right hand.

“So, friends?” he asks.

Valjean sets his mug down, and they shake hands. “Friends.”

 

Later, Javert stands in the street, staring up at Valjean’s apartment and its darkened windows. He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Is this what it’s like, to have a heart?

Javert remembers Valjean laughing at Moretti’s, paying for Javert’s food half the times they ate together. The gentle expression he wears when tending to his plants. How excited he gets to see Cosette. The time he stole fries off Javert’s plate, giggling, when Javert took him to a diner. How he refuses to type with capital letters. How he reached across, to make sure Javert wasn’t hurting himself.

_“Oh, thank God. I thought I was going to have to break it off with you.”_

Javert digs his fingernails into his palms for the first time in weeks.

“I’m sorry, Jean Valjean,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I fell in love with you.”

Abruptly, he yanks his hands out of his pockets. Javert adjusts the lapel of his coat with both hands, and then he walks away.


	3. To Suffer In Silence

They begin to settle into a routine again. Often, Valjean will swing round to the cafe to grab a bite to eat, only to find Javert inside drinking his customary black coffee. Javert becomes accustomed to receiving calls from Valjean in the afternoons.

He doesn’t become accustomed to his fellow officers’ interest in his life.

Javert has always kept his work and personal life separate. He sees no reason to mix the two, if only because he knows that his coworkers will dig deep on any information they find. It has always seemed that way to him. Even an offhand comment asking how his weekend was had immediately set him on the defensive when he was younger. He’s never socialized with other officers beyond what is mandatory. Only Chabouillet and Gisquet really know anything about him.

Now that he’s older, and an inspector, he can scare the younger officers off with a cold look. But they’re starting to become bolder as he grows closer to Valjean—not that any of them know. They can only detect that _something’s_ changed about Javert. At least, he hopes that’s all they can detect.

One day, when he’s been assigned to start work later than usual, he stops into the flower shop to see Valjean. But it’s early, and as he opens the door, he accidentally rams it into something.

“Shit!”

A few flower petals drift down onto Javert. He immediately steps aside, closing the door, to see that he’s run it into the stepladder Valjean’s standing on. Valjean now struggles to places a small tray of petunias on the shelf where they belong.

“Sorry,” Javert offers as Valjean climbs down the ladder again.

“It’s all right. But we’re technically not open yet, you know,” Valjean replies. He’s grinning, and the sight makes Javert’s heart flutter. That and the sight of Valjean with his sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

He pushes the feeling away. He’s being childish.

“Why are you here?” Valjean asks, leaning on the stepladder.

“I have a late start day today, so I thought…” he shrugs. “Might as well come and say good morning.”

Valjean’s face lights up. “Thank you. Good morning. Aren’t you hot in that?”

“Not at all,” Javert replies, suddenly defensive. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I like my coat. And I get cold easily.”

“It’s literally—“ Valjean checks the weather on his phone. “77 degrees out.”

“Well, if you’re going to insult my choice of clothing, I’m going to leave. Goodbye.” He turns to the door.

“Javert, wait. Have a good day.”

Javert pauses. “Have a good day too, Valjean.”

His feeling of contentment dissipates when he gets to his precinct and takes his coat off. Because when he does, the flower petals that fell on him tumble off his coat and onto the floor.

Javert tries his best to ignore them, folding up his coat and sliding it into his desk. He opens a case file and begins to work. But the officers that sit around him are oddly silent.

Finally, he sighs and stops. “What?”

“Where are the… flowers from, Inspector?” Lavigne asks.

“What flowers?”

“The ones that fell off your coat.”

Javert doesn’t turn to look at them. “Due to the late start, I went and visited my friend at his shop. He didn’t expect to see me and accidentally dropped some petunias on me.”

“Your… friend?” Allard asks, suddenly interested.

“His name’s Valjean.” Javert resumes working. “And if you’re going to ask how he could’ve possibly dropped flowers on me, he was on a stepladder arranging a display.”

“Is Valjean his first or last name?” Lavigne asks.

“Not telling you.”

“Aw, come on, Inspector—“

“Officers.”

All turn to see Chabouillet standing in the doorway.

“You should have work to do, so stop harassing the Inspector. Or do you need more work?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“No, sir,” the others mumble. They turn back to their desks.

Javert writes on the case file with unnecessary force anyway. If he knows his coworkers, they’ll have sniffed out who Valjean is by the end of the week.

 

He’s not wrong. Every so often, he’ll see another officer checking the business Instagram account for La Petit Fleurs, then hurriedly shut down the tab when they notice him looking. Valjean reports that there’s been an odd influx of police at both his shop and the cafe.

Javert tries to push the incidents out of his mind. He has bigger problems.

For one, he’s never tried to maintain a friendship with anyone. The closest to a friend he’s ever had is Chabouillet, but the man’s more like a mentor. And Chabouillet reaches out to Javert far more than he does to Chabouillet. He’d thought that Valjean would have some experience at least, but he seems just as bewildered as Javert.

Valjean admits to him one day that with his current friendships, it hasn’t been much an effort on either part. “Fauchelevent works at the shop, and Fantine and Simplice live next door,” he says. “We don’t have to intentionally carve out time to see each other; it just happens.”

And when they do make arrangements to see each other, it feels remarkably like the fake dates they went on. Javert makes a somewhat conscious effort to dress up, and they usually meet at a restaurant.

That’s his biggest problem.

Every time Valjean laughs, or smiles, or is kind—even if he’s only been fucking _kind_ to him—Javert feels a burst of affection for the man. He immediately reproaches himself, always. It isn’t fair to Valjean. The man has no interest in him, that much is evident. At least he wants to be friends. If he didn’t, Javert wouldn’t blame him.

Every time he says goodbye to Valjean, he tells himself that he will begin to distance himself. That he will return to being the stoic, distant inspector he’s always been.

Yet he finds himself drawn back to Valjean anyway. It’s as if Valjean is the earth and Javert is the moon.

And what Javert truly worries about is Valjean finding out the real depths of his affection.

It eats away at him. His palms are bloody more often than not, no matter how short he clips his fingernails, and Javert can tell he’s becoming more careless in his infatuation. He finds himself letting Valjean hug him goodbye, and lingering in these hugs. Sometimes Javert will suddenly realize he’s been staring at Valjean for far too long, and that his expression is tender. Valjean always appears to be confused.

Javert then immediately acts more jaded than usual. On more than one occasion Valjean will say something, and Javert replies with an answer far harsher than necessary. Then the expression on Valjean’s face is not only confused, but hurt. Javert wishes he could take it back.

Maybe it’s better this way, anyway. Valjean won’t grow attached to Javert, and the inspector can suffer in silence. The way he always has. And still, he returns to the flower shop and cafe again and again, hungry to see Valjean.

 

Valjean is growing increasingly concerned with Javert’s behavior. It’s become erratic, both positive and negative, and almost more off-putting than before the apology.

He finds relief in the fact that Javert still answers his texts, still appears at the cafe and flower shop. Valjean watches him worriedly. He calls him nearly daily.

He has to make sure that Javert isn’t hurting himself. When Javert admitted that he had meant to kill himself, it had shocked him, as well as nearly driven him to tears. Valjean remembers the period of time when Fantine had been on suicide watch. It was torture.

Javert doesn’t deserve to die, and Valjean cannot lose him.

• • •

They spend the entirety of July dancing around each other, but that is not to say Valjean doesn’t provide Javert with a nearly endless supply of texts and calls, or that the days Javert finds a reason to visit the flower shop don’t far outnumber the days he can’t.

Valjean develops a habit of randomly taking Javert’s arms and checking his wrists. Javert resists this immensely—although he and Valjean has very different ideas as to why. Valjean remains oblivious.

And then in the early days of August, Valjean is interrupted from his work by the sound of a police siren.

He thinks nothing of it. At first. And then it gets closer, and closer, until he can see flashing blue and red lights drive down the street. His pulse starts to quicken. Valjean presses an anxious hand to his chest, trying to calm himself. He’s done nothing wrong. There’s no reason why they should be here for him.

The car passes, and there’s nothing else even related to the police for nearly an hour. Valjean lets himself relax again.

And then there’s a sharp rap at the door.

“Come in,” Valjean calls absentmindedly. When he looks up, Javert and a much younger man are standing in front of the counter. Valjean smiles, but before he can say anything, the two pull out their badges.

“Are you Jean Valjean?” the young man asks.

Valjean’s mouth turns dry, and his chest starts to heave again. “Yes,” he manages. His eyes dart between the two as he remembers how Javert complained the other officers said he was ruthless.

“The jewelry store across the street was robbed,” Javert says in a monotone voice. “We need to ask you some questions about—“

That’s when Valjean’s mind stops working.

He’s 27 again, standing at his front door terrified, guilt dragging him down.

_We need to ask you some questions_

The cuffs are being slid over his wrists—

_We need to ask you some questions_

He’s sitting in a holding cell—

_We need to ask you some questions_

He’s in the courtroom, and everyone knows it’s a lost cause, especially his state-appointed lawyer, and the judge’s lips are moving, but Valjean can’t hear what’s being said.

Valjean grips the edge of the counter tightly.

“Are you here to arrest me?” he asks in a small voice.

He doesn’t hear the response. Valjean shuts his eyes, hyperventilating. The counter is slick with sweat under his hands and his wrists burn.

“Valjean.” Someone’s cool hands touch his shoulders, and he flinches. “Valjean, look at me.”

Valjean opens his eyes slowly. “Javert?”

The man is standing beside him behind the counter. Valjean tries to shrink away. _This is how it starts, this is how it always starts—_

“Javert, are you going to arrest me?” He sinks to his knees, still clutching the counter. “I told you I’m sorry, I— I—“

A young man hurries over. The sight of his police badge strikes even more fear into Valjean’s heart. “Inspector, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Javert only looks at Valjean, hands still on his shoulders. Valjean pushes them off.

“I don’t want to go back,” he whimpers. “Please.”

“Valjean—“ Javert is kneeling beside him, and the handcuffs on his belt clink. Valjean cries out, burying his face in his hands.

Javert is here to arrest him, of course, _of course_. There’s no reason why he’d be here. Valjean must have done something, must have done something to annoy him. Why would he be here? Javert is the man who carries anger in his face and strikes fear with every foot step and—

“I didn’t do anything!” Valjean cries. “I didn’t do anything! You have to believe me, Javert, you have to.”

“Sh.”

And then Javert is cupping Valjean’s face in his hands. Valjean shoves him away roughly, and suddenly Javert is two feet away from him. _This is how it always started—_

“Valjean, what the fuck is wrong?” Javert demands, and the younger man turns to look at him.

Valjean starts to cry.  “You’re going to hurt me, I know it. I know it. You’re acting like the other guards and— and— _I don’t want to get hurt again_.” He presses hands to his throat, trying to calm himself, but it won’t stop. It won’t steady. His hands are shaking. “They were so _cruel_ , Javert! Please let me—“ he hiccups “—please let me be! Please don’t hurt me!”

He is begging them now. Valjean crushes his hands between his fingers, and a look of shock has passed over the two officers’ face.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” the younger one says, and Javert nods.

“Where is he going?” Valjean whimpers when the man darts away. “Is he going to get more? Please don’t hurt me. _Please_.”

Javert leans forward, and somehow his touch is gentle. His face is too. “Jean Valjean, you are in your flower shop. You haven’t been to prison in twenty-one years. I am not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t know that!”

Valjean feels tears dripping down his face. Javert wipes them away softly, somehow.

“Sh,” Javert whispers. “You’re safe. No one can hurt you.”

Valjean only stares at him, hyperventilating.

“No one is going to hurt you.”

Slowly, Valjean shows him his shaking wrists. “Look, look— _look at what they did to me_.”

Javert takes his wrists, inspecting them, and then he looks up with shock written across his face. “These are scars.”

“They would pull me by the chain in between the handcuffs until they bled. They kicked me in the ribs sometimes,” Valjean whispers.

Suddenly, Javert is wrapping his arms around Valjean, pulling him close. His heart hammers. But Javert makes no move to hurt him—he only smoothes Valjean’s hair gently. Valjean takes a shuddering breath.

“You’re never going to wear handcuffs again.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s in the back of an ambulance with a blanket over his shoulders. It’s the middle of the day, and he can feel eyes on him, but he’s too jarred to feel embarrassed.

Javert watches over him with a cool eye. Fantine has come out of her shop, and she and Cosette have been allowed to sit with him, but both Javert and the medics will allow no one else. Valjean pulls the blanket closer around his shoulders.  

“What happened, Jean?” Fantine asks worriedly.

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“I think I do, sir.”

They look up to see a youngish woman in a paramedic’s uniform standing there. She smiles slightly. “May I sit?” Valjean nods, and she does.

“We believe you had a combination of being triggered and having a panic attack,” the woman explains. “Inspector Javert has shared some details about your experiences—nothing too personal,” she adds at the look on Valjean’s face. “But it certainly seems that the sight of the two police officers, combined with their question and your own anxiety, lead to a complete breakdown. I don’t specialize in mental health, but we all have basic training in all areas. You definitely have trauma associated with law enforcement. I’d recommend seeing a therapist.”

“A therapist,” Valjean breathes. “Okay.”

His hands are still shaking.

“Can I speak with you, ma’am?” Fantine asks.

“Certainly.”

They step away, and Valjean is left alone. He adjusts the blanket on his shoulders.

Trauma.

He knows that the medic’s right, that he probably has PTSD. But Valjean has never confronted this. He’s always been able to scrape along, hide in the shadows from police.

“Hey.”

Javert sits beside him. Valjean takes a shuddering breath and leans against him. For a moment, Javert stiffens, but then he relaxes. He wraps an arm over Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean closes his eyes as Javert runs a hand over his hair.

“Thank you,” Valjean whispers.

“I’d do it again.” Javert’s other hand find one of Valjean’s wrists. Valjean braces for the feeling of Javert wrapping his fingers around it, of a touch that will feel entirely too much like handcuffs, but he only strokes Valjean’s skin gently. “I’m so sorry, Valjean. You never deserved what happened, and I can’t believe that anyone would do that. That I worked with those people.”

Valjean only adjusts his head on Javert’s shoulder. “You didn’t do it.”

“I know. And I’m making this about myself. How are you? Are you calmed down?”

“I think,” Valjean whispers. “Thank you, for helping me.”

They sit in silence for a little. Then, gently, Javert pushes Valjean off of him. “Excuse me. Lavigne is staring, and I have to go reprimand him.” Valjean smiles weakly.

Cosette comes up. “Can I sit with you, Papa?”

“Of course.” He offers his hand, but she clambers up on the edge of the ambulance by herself. She frowns, touching the blanket.

“This is soft. Can I hold it?”

“Certainly,” Valjean says softly, handing it to her. Cosette smiles and holds the blanket close to her face.

She touches his arm. “I’m sorry, Papa. I want you to be okay, and you don’t seem like that right now.”

“Thank you, Cosette. I’m going to get better.”

“Good.”

The paramedic returns, holding a clipboard. “That woman, Fantine, will be along in a moment.” Then she glances over at the small gathering of police officers. “Is that man your husband?”

Valjean stops. “Javert? Oh, no. He’s just… a friend.”

“A very good friend, from what it seems,” she says.

“Yes.”

He looks over at Javert, who appears to be scolding Lavigne. “He’s the very best.”

• • •

“Inspector Javert!”

“Yes, Lavigne?” Javert asks, not looking up from his paperwork.

“Is your florist all right?”

Javert’s head snaps up, steely eyes pinning Lavigne to the spot. The other officers watch silently. It’s been two days since Valjean panicked, and Lavigne hasn’t mentioned it yet.

“What did you just say?” Javert says, with as little emotion as possible.

“Your florist, Jean Valjean. Is he okay?”

Javert turns back to his work. “He’s okay now. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Inspector—“ Dumont starts to push his chair closer to Javert’s desk, but one look freezes him. He keeps talking anyway. “Lavigne said you seemed close to Valjean. How do you know him?”

“He did _what_?” Javert whips around to glare at Lavigne. The man’s face is flushed.

“They asked about it,” Lavigne mumbles.

“All right.” Javert stands up, slamming his hands on the desk. “I know Valjean because I used his shop for my father’s funeral. I was comforting him because he had just undergone an _unbelievably_ traumatic experience. I have no personal relationship with him.”

Lavigne mutters something.

“What was that, Lieutenant?”

“It didn’t seem like that on Tuesday.”

Javert growls. “It must be a slow time for your gossip, huh? Not enough from what you’ve normally got?”

“Huh?” Dumont asks.

“You don’t have the right to intrude into my personal life. Lavigne, I am forty seven years old. Friendship and romance are things I have never pursued, and I have no reason to start now.” He grabs the file he’s been working on. “Stay out of my business, understood? That goes for all of you.”

The officers present nod, but Javert continues scowling. He shoves his chair into the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go discuss this case with Commissioner Gisquet.”

 

Several pairs of eyes follow Javert out of the room. Then Lavigne turns to Dumont, glaring.

“I just wanted to know how his friend was doing. You didn’t have to butt in.”

Dumont shrugs, turning in his chair. “Who of us mentioned romance?”

“What?”

“Javert said he’s never pursued romance or friendship, but none of us mentioned romance.” He raises his eyebrows. “Also, for the record, how many of us are stalking La Petit Fleurs and Jean Valjean on social media?”

Nearly all of the officers raise their hands, not looking up from their work. Lavigne sighs and collapses in his chair.

 

Valjean is stressed.

Specifically, about a therapist. He knows he needs one, and he never wants _that_ to happen again, but he has no idea if his anxiety will let him talk about his prison experience to someone he doesn’t know well. Honestly, he has trouble talking to Fantine about it.

Right now, he’s in the back of the flower shop. He’s supposed to be trimming some roses, and the clippers are in his hands, but he can’t seem to do it. He sighs and leans against the table.

His other hand darts to his pocket, to his phone, and he punches in Javert’s phone number. It rings three times before the man picks up.

“Valjean?”

“Can I talk to you?” Valjean asks, hopping up onto the table. Some of his stress has vanished a little just from hearing Javert’s voice.

“I mean… today. Not right now. I’ve got to talk to Gisquet about a gang boss. We’ve nearly caught him, and this is a time-sensitive case, so—“

“That’s all right,” Valjean murmurs. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh.”

“Bye,” Valjean says, then hangs up without waiting for a reply. He sighs and tilts his head back. At least Javert will call him later, and then they can talk.

Then Valjean freezes.

“Oh, my God,” he whispers.

How far does his affection for Javert go, really? He isn’t content to simply see the man a few days a week, to just text him. He gets joy from hearing his voice.

Valjean quickly recalls how Javert held him two days ago, how much comfort he’d found in his arms. At the time, he’d thought it was because of his panic. And it was. But now, when he’s nowhere near being triggered, Valjean considers he wouldn’t mind it again. He inhales deeply.

And he told Javert he wasn’t interested romantically in him!

Valjean finds his chest heaving. He counts to ten, to still his breathing, and he put the rose clippers down. Then he hugs himself. Certainly Javert isn’t attracted to him. Not the stoic inspector.

“I have to tell him,” Valjean whispers. “I have to tell him I’m in love with him.”

But how?

Valjean finds he has no answer to the question. He chuckles without humor, clutching desperately at his arms. His heart is pounding.

Somehow, he’s more stressed than before.

 

_“Hey, Valjean.”_

_Valjean looks up from the cash register to see Javert walking through the door. He smiles, shutting the drawer. “Hey.”_

_Javert has a troubled expression on his face. “How are you doing?”_

_“Fine. Why?”_

_“Because I was worried about you.” And then Javert is leaning across the counter, grabbing his face. He kisses Valjean roughly_.

Valjean bolts upright, hyperventilating. He groans and drags a hand down his face.

This is getting ridiculous.

He’s never _dreamed_ about anyone before, not even daydreamed. And this is the second time in three nights that he’s woken from a dream about Javert kissing him. He bunches the blankets in his fists.

Valjean’s gaze travels over to his phone, resting on the side table. He picks it up. _Just to check the time_ , he tells himself. It’s 5:09. And somehow, he finds himself calling Javert.

Surprisingly, Javert picks up instantly. “Hello, Valjean?”

“How are you awake?” Valjean asks.

“I’m working very hard on the Eugéne Thénardier case. I came into work fifteen minutes ago. How are _you_ awake?”

“I, uh…” Valjean frowns. “Nightmare,” he lies.

“Were you gonna tell me about it?”

He considers it for a moment. “Nah. Just wanted to talk to someone.”

“And you picked me. I’m very flattered.”

Valjean turns red in the darkness. “Okay.” Then something occurs to him. “You said the Thénardier case?”

“Yeah,” Javert yawns.

“I—Cosette goes to school with his daughters, Éponine and Azelma. He’s abusive. Do you know where they are?”

“They’re in the state’s care and have been so for about two months, after Eugéne and his wife vanished. Don’t worry. He’s been arrested for child abuse before, as well as having a hundred other strikes against him.”

Valjean smiles. He suddenly feels fatigue wash over him. “I think I’m gonna go back to sleep, okay?”

“Okay.” Javert’s voice is a whisper over the phone and rich as honey. “Sleep well.”

The other line clicks off, and Valjean sets his phone on the side table. He lies back down, staring at the ceiling, and closes his eyes with a contented sigh.

 

Javert is beginning to notice an increase in Valjean’s anxiety when they interact. He puts it down to Valjean’s panic. The episode deeply worries Javert, and he vaguely realizes he’s never worried so much for another person. It annoys him.

The morning ten days after _it_ , Chabouillet calls Javert into his office.

“Suit up.”

“What, sir?” Javert asks.

“I said that you need to suit up.” Chabouillet himself is strapping a bulletproof vest over his chest. “We’ve located Thénardier, but we don’t know how long he’ll be there. I need you at the arrest scene.”

“Shouldn’t I grab Lavigne? He’s my assigned partner—“

Chabouillet locks eyes with Javert. “Javert, Thénardier hasn’t surfaced in four months. We have enough evidence to put him behind bars for life, but if we don’t get there in time, we may lose him again. _Suit up_.”

“Yes sir.”

• • •

Simplice sighs. “Director Chabouillet, what happened this time?”

They’re sitting in the back of an ambulance, blood dripping down Chabouillet’s bicep. He grimaces. “We expected guns, not knives. Patron-Minette certainly has the resources for it.”

She removes the bulletproof vest, then cuts away the shirt where the red is thickest. Simplice hisses. It’s deep. “What exactly happened?”

“The young one, Montparnasse—“

“I need medical data, not criminal names.”

Chabouillet shrugs, then groans. “He sort of stabbed my shoulder.”

“Sort of?”

“Held it at a forty-five degree angle, then stabbed me. I think he was going for closer to the neck, but the vest helped.”

Simplice sighs, examining the wound. She’s far younger than Chabouillet, as well as most of the officers she looks after, but she sees them so often sometimes she feels like their mother. “This is going to need stitches. We have the supplies, but… It’ll hurt.”

“Get this goddamn thing taken care of any way you can.”

Simplice sort of smiles. “All right.”

“How are you?” she asks as she pulls out some antibiotic wipes.

“All right. My wife’s fine. Honestly, if there’s anything I’m worried about, it’s Javert.”  

“What? Why?” Simplice glances over at Javert, who is leaning against a wall, watching the aftermath with a surly expression. “Is he hurt too?”

“I don’t think so. No, rather…” Chabouillet frowns. “It’s about his personal life, actually.”

“Oh?”

“A little over a week ago, there was a jewelry store robbery. Javert and Lavigne were assigned door duty, to ask neighbors if they’d seen anything. And one—“

“Had a mix of a panic attack and triggering. Valjean’s my neighbor and my friend. I know.”

“Okay.” Chabouillet runs the hand of his uninjured arm through his hair. “But it looks like he’s friends with Valjean. He’s never seemed to be friends with anyone before, even the other officers, and they were interested. Now they’re asking him questions, and it appears to be stressing him.”

They glance over at Javert. He has a surly expression, though Simplice knows that’s just his favorite expression. He doesn’t appear to notice them.

“I think he’s overworking himself,” Chabouillet divulges. “He hasn’t taken any leave since April when his father died, and he said he didn’t care. He’s always alone, but that just isn’t healthy.”

“He’s not always alone,” Simplice says offhandedly, wiping blood off the director’s skin.

“What?”

“Oh.” She cringes. “Javert… has developed a relationship with Valjean. Ever since he came in to buy flowers for his father’s funeral. They go out to dinner at least once a week. Fantine has a habit of texting me about it.”

Chabouillet raises his eyebrows. “How interesting. I’ll ask him about it. How’s Fantine doing?”

“Very well. It’s nearing our anniversary, actually. Six years in September.”

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you, sir.” Simplice preps the needle. “Now, take a deep breath. This is going to hurt.”

 

The door swings open. Valjean looks up. “Javert!”

He nods. “Valjean.”

“What are you here for?” Valjean asks, straightening. He’s been arranging a display close to the ground.

“I, uh…” Javert looks down at his arm. “I was going to buy some flowers?”

Valjean leans against the shelf. “Really.”

“Yes.”

“You, the imperious Inspector Javert, are looking to buy some flowers.”

Javert looks Valjean dead in the eye, and Valjean feels a flush creep up his neck. “Yes.”

“Okay, okay.” Valjean suppresses a laugh. Javert has known him for months now. And they’re friends. There’s no reason from him to play the ‘I’m here to buy some flowers’ game anymore. “What would you like?”

Javert’s gaze flits over the shop. “Some lilies, I think.”

“Okay.” Valjean shrugs. “Go pick them out, I guess?”

Javert does so, and Valjean watches him with a soft smile. Then he frowns. The inspector is holding his right arm awkwardly against his chest, almost protectively. His hand is tilted up.

“Hey, Javert,” Valjean calls, and Javert looks over his shoulder. “Is your arm okay?”

Javert blanches. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Valjean murmurs, but he keeps an eye on him.

When Javert has selected a batch of lilies, Valjean wraps them and begins to ring them up. “What’s the occasion? You haven’t bought flowers in months.”

Javert rests his right hand on the counter and drums the fingers of his left one on it. “My stupid precinct is having a stupid party. I can’t remember why. My job is to get flowers.”

Valjean chuckles. “Ah.”

Then he pauses. “Javert?”

“Mhm?”

“Javert, you’re bleeding onto my counter.”

Valjean sighs as Javert looks down at his arm. A thin red line runs down his tawny skin, dripping onto the counter below.

“I’m sorry,” Javert mumbles. “I’ll go home and take care of it immediately.”

“Lord, you’re so bad at taking care of yourself. C’mon.” Valjean gestures. “I have a first aid kit in the back that we can use.”

 

Javert looks around, studying the room. It’s full of plants, gardening materials. A long wooden table is in the center. He and Valjean stand by it, due to the lack of chairs.

Valjean rifles through a first aid kit, pulling out bandages and antibiotic wipes. “How did you even hurt yourself in the first place?”

“We’ve been tracking Thénardier. He was with his gang, all of whom have arrest warrants, and one of them had knives on him. The worst part is Thénardier got away. I only got nicked, though. Chabouillet was stabbed in the shoulder.”

“Poor Chabouillet. Oh, why do you always insist on wearing a coat?” Valjean gestures to Javert’s torso. “Take it off.”

Javert shrugs it off with some difficulty. “Fine.”

Valjean stares at him. “It’s _August_. How are you wearing a long-sleeved shirt underneath a coat?”

“They give me a sense of protection,” Javert replies, shrugging. Valjean shakes his head and carefully rolls up Javert’s sleeve.

“Javert, this is not a _nick_ in any way,” Valjean says as he stares at Javert. “This is a gash.”

“So?” Javert attempts.

“You’re awful.”  Valjean rips open the packet of an antibiotic wipe and starts to clean the wound. Javert winces.

“Why do you have a first aid kit on hand?” he asks, trying to ignore how close Valjean is to him.

“Cosette loves to help me trims stems and stuff, but she’s young enough she’ll still accidentally cut herself on occasion. Everyone’s done something like that, really. Flowers are a lot tougher than they look sometimes.” Valjean unwraps a bandage. “Plus, it’s good to have it as a precaution.”

“Makes sense.”

Valjean moves even closer to him, carefully smoothing the bandage over the cut, and Javert finds himself blushing. How absurd he is—blushing, like a schoolboy.

“All done.” But Valjean doesn’t let go of Javert’s arm; instead, he lifts it and kisses the bandaged part.

Javert stares at him.

It seems to take Valjean a moment to realize what he’s done. The he drops Javert’s arm, face quickly reddening.

“I’m so sorry—I’m used to Cosette, and she’s only nine so she asks me to kiss cuts to make them better because she’s so little, and it’s just a reflex, and I’m so sorry.” The words spill out of Valjean’s mouth, running together. He looks as if he’s about to delve into another round of apologizing. Cautiously, Javert takes his hand. Now it’s Valjean’s turn to stare at Javert.

“I…” Javert hesitates. “Back in June, when I told you that I was faking the romance stuff, I was lying. Kind of. I _was_ faking it at first, and then when I told you, I realized that I wasn’t anymore.” Javert looks down at Valjean’s hand in his own, large and tan and worn.

Hesitantly, he brings it to his lips, kissing the back of Valjean’s hand. He puts it down just as slowly.

“I fell in love with you, Jean. If I can call you that. I’m sorry.”

Valjean looks at him for a long moment, and Javert begins to feel panic bubble up in his chest. He starts to let go of Valjean’s hand.

“Don’t,” Valjean says softly.

And then he says, “I’m in love with you too.”

Javert looks at him, shocked. Then he smiles in his odd way.

Valjean takes the side of Javert’s face in his free hand, running his thumb over Javert’s sideburn. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Javert whispers, and then Valjean’s mouth is on his and Valjean is wrapping his arms around his neck, and Javert is holding Valjean by the small of his back. The kiss is sloppy and messy but Javert doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care_ , because Jean Valjean is kissing him and that’s the only thing that matters.

Valjean breaks away, laughing. “We’re bad at this.” He doesn’t let go of Javert.

“This is my first time kissing anyone,” Javert confesses.

“Ever?” Valjean asks.

“Ever.”

“Me too,” Valjean whispers. Then a sly grin slides across him face. “You know, you only get better at things with practice.”

Javert’s face burns, but he laughs, He leans down to Valjean, and they’re kissing again, and he feels happiness fill his chest.

After a bit, he pulls back slightly. “Stop smiling. It’s so hard to kiss you already.”

“I can’t,” Valjean laughs, and for some reason, Javert starts to laugh too. He can’t stop smiling either.

“I’m so happy,” Valjean says quietly, gazing at Javert with his beautiful hazel eyes. “You love me.”

“Yes.”

“And you can be sure that I love you.”

Javert cups Valjean’s face in his hands. Thank you. Thank you, Valjean. For everything.”


	4. To Begin Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! My anxiety prevents me from responding to them individually, but I appreciate them all very much.

“We really ought to go on a proper date,” Valjean says. Javert glances over at him.

It’s around 8:00 now, and they’re sitting in the hallway outside of Valjean’s apartment. Fauchelevent nearly walked in on them making out while looking for Valjean, and they’d decided it was a good idea for Javert to come back later. So he did. He’s still in his coat.

Javert intertwines their fingers “What do you mean? We went to the diner, and Moretti’s—“

“Oh god, _Moretti’s,_ ” Valjean groans. “That doesn’t count. You got me drunk so I didn’t have to deal with my anxiety.”

“I gelled my hair for you,” Javert protests.

“My _point_ is, neither of us were actually invested in those dates. We were both faking, or at least we thought we were. We should do something real.”

Javert sighs. “I can’t set up anything. The Thénardier case is eating us up.”

“Don’t worry.” Valjean smiles. “I’ll arrange it all. It’ll be a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

Valjean settles his head on Javert’s shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

 

Javert gets a chance the next day to text Valjean. _What should I wear?_

_anything works_

_ACTUALLY don’t dress up_

_Good to see you know where the caps lock is_ , Javert replies.

 _ha ha_. _saturday at 8:00 good?_

_Yeah._

_also, i want to pick you up_

Javert almost spits out his coffee. _NO._

_Why?_

_My apartment’s a shithole_ , he texts back.

_i don’t care. what’s your address_

Javert sighs and sends it to him.

 

On Friday, Javert is already standing outside his apartment block when Valjean pulls up.

He rolls down the window, hanging his arm over the side, and leans out. “What, didn’t want me to see your apartment.”

“I told you, it’s a shithole,” Javert replies as he gets into the passenger seat. Then he eyes Valjean. “Cosette told me you’re a terrible driver.”

“Cosette,” Valjean says, pulling a blindfold from his pocket, “has a tendency to exaggerate. I need you to wear this.”

“I’m not wearing a goddamn blindfold.”

Valjean looks up at him mournfully. “Please? It’s part of the surprise.”

“Fine.” Javert looks at him with narrow eyes as he takes the blindfold, then fastens it around his eyes. “My God, this is awful. You better get us there quickly.”

Valjean glances down at his hands on the steering wheel. “Do you want to get there quickly or safel—“

“Safely. For the fucking love of God, Valjean, get us there safely.”

He grins, pulling the car onto the road. “How’s the Thénardier case?”

“Shitty. He knows we’re looking for him now, so he’s completely vanished.”

“And how’s your arm?” Valjean asks gently.

“It’s okay.” Javert shifts in his seat. “This blindfold is itchy.”

Valjean smiles. “We’ll get there eventually.”

They drive in mostly silence, which is only occasionally punctuated by talking. At one point, Javert reaches over, blindly fumbling for Valjean’s hand. Valjean lets him take it. The inspector exhales audibly.

Finally, he pulls up to where they’re going. Javert puts a hand up to his face. “Can I take this off now?”

“We’re at a stoplight.”

“Valjean—“

“I’m kidding,” Valjean laughs. “Don’t touch the blindfold. I’ll… I’ll tell you when you can.” He gets out, then runs out and helps Javert from the car. Javert grabs his arm.

“Show me where we’re going.”

“Okay.” Carefully, he starts to lead Javert over the path. It’s difficult in the dark, but he manages.

“Valjean, I can hear water,” Javert breathes, moving his head round.

Valjean smiles to himself. “Yeah, that makes sense. Now, take a step forward like you’re walking up the stairs. Only one step, though.”

“The ground just got a lot harder—now it’s getting softer. Where the fuck are we going?”

“We’re nearly there. Okay, stop.”

Javert stands still. Gently, Valjean reaches up and adjusts Javert’s head so it tilts up, then removes the blindfold. “Open your eyes.”

 

Javert does as he’s told.

_There are so many stars._

i “Valjean,” he breathes, watching the sky, “how did you…. what did… how did you know?”

Valjean leans against his shoulder. “When we went to the diner, I saw you look up and just watch the stars with a sort of awestruck look. So I thought you might like this—“

He’s cut off by Javert wrapping his arms around him. “I _love_ it, it’s beautiful— _thank you._ ”

“It’s no problem.” Valjean hooks his own arms around Javert ’s waist. “I was going to take you to a planetarium, but then I found out the sky’s supposed to be clear tonight, and I thought, why not? The stars are always the best over water.”

“They’re beautiful,” Javert breathes.

“Mm-hm.” Valjean lays his head on his shoulder. They stand there like that for a long time, until finally Valjean lets go and sits down on the sand. Javert follows, chuckling.

“Old man,” he teases.

“I’m only 55,” Valjean retorts, laying his head on Javert once more.

“That’s eight years older than me.”

Valjean snickers. “I was in the third grade when you were born.”

“This is a gorgeous night, Valjean,” Javert says, ignoring him. “How’d you… how’d you find this place?

“The bishop told me about it.” Valjean’s voice is soft and tired. Javert smiles and glances over at him. The man looks like he’s about to fall asleep. Javert runs a hand through his hair, and he sighs contentedly.

“Thank you, Valjean,” Javert whispers.

 

“Sim, Jean isn’t back yet,” Fantine calls.

Simplice looks up from the book she’s reading. “Do you know where he went?” Fantine shakes her head and slams the door behind her. Simplice grimaces. “Cosette’s barely asleep. We need to keep it down.”

Fantine twists her blonde hair around her hands. “‘Kay. I know that he went someplace with Javert, but that’s it. He was really excited about it.”

“Maybe they eloped and are gonna start a flower shop in Chicago,” Simplice replies as she looks down at her book again.

“Sim.” Fantine sits next to her, curling her feet under her thighs. “Stop. I’m just worried. It’s almost midnight—he’s never out this late.”

“Why were you over there anyway?”

“Wanted to talk about our anniversary.”

Simplice kisses her. “Why were you going to talk to your neighbor about your anniversary instead of your girlfriend?”

“I’m planning a surprise.” Fantine takes her hand. “Wish we could get married.”

“We can get married. Let’s go down to the courthouse tomorrow.”

“You know what I mean,” she complains, grabbing the remote. “A proper wedding, with dresses and champagne and Cosette as the flower girl. Do you wanna watch Daredevil with me?”

“I was reading.”

“Ya boring. Sorry. I’m just frustrated.”

“Nah, love. It’s a shitty novel anyway. Let’s, oh, lesbian over Claire Temple instead, hmm?” Simplice wraps her arms around her partner, burying her face in her neck, and Fantine erupts into giggles.

• • •

On Monday, Chabouillet accosts Javert in the hallway.

“Inspector, I’ve been wondering if you were all right. I didn’t get a chance to check if you were uninjured before they took me to the hospital,” the director says.

Javert glances down at his arm, then eyes Chabouillet’s shoulder. “I’m all right. Shouldn’t you be at home, sir?”

“I’m all right as well,” Chabouillet replies. “You know, Simplice treated my arm at first, and we got into a conversation. She mentioned that you’ve been establishing a friendship with Jean Valjean.”

“You… could say that,” Javert says, remembering the back of the flower shop. Then a thought occurs to him. “Please don’t tell the other officers, sir. They’ll never leave me alone about it.”

“Why do you worry about the other officers knowing some of your personal life?” Chabouillet asks gently.

“I…” Javert folds his hands behind his back, then looks the director in the eye. “I’m simply a private man. Sir, I don’t want them knowing about me.”

“But why? They’re good people.”

Javert closes his eyes for a moment. “I need to resume working on the Eugéne Thénardier case. Sir.”

“Very well.” Chabouillet lets him pass.

Javert immediately leaves the precinct, walking into the small courtyard the officers have access to. His phone is calling Valjean before he’s through the door. Then he holds it to his ear, waiting.

Valjean doesn’t pick up.

It is the middle of the day, after all. Likely he’s busy. Javert sighs and turns his phone off. For the first time in a long time, he grabs his lighter and a cigarette. He never took them out of his jacket.

It’s oddly soothing. Javert leans against the wall, the cigarette in one hand, and looks up to the sky. It’s still rather clear. With a smile, he recalls the stars over the water. Valjean’s head on his shoulder.

What would happen if the other officers found out about this… romance?

He doesn’t want to think about it.

The door to the courtyard opens. “I thought you were going to work on the case, Inspector,” Chabouillet calls.

Javert crushes the cigarette under his heel. “Yes, sir.”

 

When Javert calls, Valjean is thirty feet away from his phone, standing in the front of La Petit Fleurs. He folds his arms over his chest.

“Sir, please explain why you were intimidating my employee,” he says tersely. Dahlia trembles behind him.

The young man standing in front of him scowls. “I’m just trying to send some flowers to my girlfriend.”

“She asked Fauchelevent to stop delivering them,” Dahlia says quietly. “They broke up three months ago. She moved since then and he still found out where she lives.”

“We’re in a bit of a rough patch,” the man snaps. He’s rather tall, taller than both Dahlia and Valjean, but not intimidating. To Valjean, at least, who has seen far worse.

“That doesn’t excuse your mistreatment of Dahlia,” Valjean replies. “How many bouquets has he sent?”

“Six in the last week. I just told him that the woman asked us to stop.”

Valjean glares at the man who, for the first time, shrinks away. “Kindly leave the shop, sir, or we _will_ press charges. You can keep paying for the flowers if you want, but we won’t send them.”

“You can’t do that!”

“When I walked into the shop,” Valjean says, very deliberately, “you were grabbing Dahlia by the arm, and she looked terrified. She has the authority to press charges. So does the young woman mentioned. As she is the one the flowers are being delivered to, she can ask us to stop any time. We’ll respect her wishes.”

“What about my wishes?”

Valjean points. “Get out.”

As the man leaves, Valjean turns to Dahlia. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, sir,” she says softly. “Just a bit shaken.”

The front door opens. Valjean turns swiftly, ready to either scowl at the young man or smile for a different customer, but it’s only Fantine. He sighs with relief. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Fine.”

They end up in the cutting room. Valjean moves as far away as humanly from the spot where he and Javert kissed. Though Fantine looks at him strangely, she doesn’t say anything, just hops up onto one of the counters.

“It’s my and Simplice’s anniversary, soon,” she begins, and Valjean nods.

Fantine twists her hands together. “I really, really want to propose to her as one of her anniversary presents. But I haven’t got enough money for what we want the wedding to be like.”

“I can pay,” Valjean offers. “Or at least help.”

She shakes her head violently. “I want to do this myself, Jean. I know that you have more than enough to help us, but… it’s just something I want to do myself. With Sim’s help, of course.”

“So what are you asking me?”

“Can I get a job in the flower shop?” Fantine asks.

He stares at her. Then he regains his composure. “No, and I’m sorry about it. I can’t afford to pay another employee, and Fantine, you can’t afford to stop managing the cafe. It gets so many customers, though—are you sure you can’t afford a wedding?”

“I can afford a wedding, but…” Fantine looks at her shoes. “Sim doesn’t ask much, but I _know_ that for her wedding, she wants something beautiful. To feel like a princess for a day. To wear a gorgeous dress, and have champagne at the reception, and flowers. And I want to give it to her.” She swallows. “I think I want that a little bit too.”

Valjean tilts his head. “When do you think you’d want to get married, maybe?”

“In the winter.”

“The winter?”

Fantine nods firmly. “Sim and I have talked about it. Not a lot, but enough. Winter was when _it_ happened, when I got sick, and I hate it kinda. But I think if I got married in winter and had a lovely wedding that it’d turn winter into a good season.”

“End of the year or beginning?”

“Beginning.”

Valjean nods thoughtfully. “Fantine, how much have you squirrelled away for this?”

“About 27 hundred dollars.”

“My sister spent only about two thousand on her wedding, and it was a beautiful thing.” He frowns. “From what I remember. I was only 13. Anyway, I’m sure that if we’re smart about the funds, you can have a beautiful January wedding.”

Fantine smiles. “You’ll help?”

“Definitely.”

“Thank you, Jean.” She jumps off the counter and hugs him. “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Valjean asks, as they walk back into the shop.

“I’m going to finish my shift at the cafe, and then I’m going to go look at engagement rings.”

• • •

_Can I come over?_

Valjean barely glances at the text message. _sure_

 _Thanks_.

He sets his phone on the table, screen up, and picks his book up again. He doesn’t stop to consider why Javert is texting him at 11:00 at night—they’ve become accustomed to contacting each other at late hours.

Javert shows up fifteen minutes later. His face is haggard, and he’s still wearing his police badge. Valjean frowns as he lets him in.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently.

Javert slides his shoes off, then collapses on the couch. “I don’t wanna talk about work today.”

“Oh,” Valjean says, very softly, and sits in the armchair again. He pulls his legs up. “Simplice and Fantine are going to get married.”

“They aren’t already?”

“They’ve never been able to afford it. Fantine plans to propose to Simplice on their anniversary, and…” Valjean trails off. “What are you doing.”

Javert glances over at him. He’s removed his coat and button-down, leaving him in a slim wife-beater. “It’s hot in here.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words leave your lips,” Valjean says, feeling his cheeks warm. The white of the beater contrasts entirely too nicely with the inspector’s warm brown skin.

“Hmph.” He flops back down on the couch again. “I’m not going to take this off, don’t worry. When’s Fantine going to propose, if you know?”

Valjean catches himself staring at Javert’s chest. He blinks. “September 2nd, their anniversary. But you can’t tell Simplice.”

“Like I would,” Javert snorts. He exhales, then closes his eyes.

They settle into a comfortable silence. Valjean turns a few pages in his book before Javert speaks again.

“They found a little girl.”

“What?” Valjean says sharply.

“They found a little girl’s body today.” Javert is staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. “Lavigne and I were the team called in for investigation—Chabouillet wants me to get off of the Thénardier case for a little. But she was murdered, and whoever did it left her in a dumpster.”

Valjean stares at him with wide eyes. He continues speaking.

“I would’ve been troubled anyway. You don’t really get over this stuff. But Valjean—Valjean, she looked so like Cosette. I can’t get it out of my mind. She was so little and she looked just like Cosette.”

Silently, Valjean gets up. He pushes Javert, up, off the couch, then sits beside him and takes him in his arms.

“What are you—“

“I’m comforting you,” he says quietly. “Don’t tell me anymore about her. I don’t want to think about it.”

Javert reaches up and covers Valjean’s hand with his own. “Thank you.”

For a long time, they sit in comfortable silence, Javert’s head hanging low. Then Valjean hears him take a shuddering breath.

Valjean’s eyes widen. “Javert, are you… crying?”

“No,” Javert says gruffly. He lets go of Valjean and wraps his arms around himself. “I just—I just can’t stop seeing her, Valjean. It’s stuck in my head and I can’t get it out.”

“I’m so sorry,” Valjean whispers.

“It’s true, what they say. You never get used to it.” Javert takes another deep breath. Then, suddenly, he buries his face in Valjean’s chest.

Valjean freezes for a moment. Gently, he wraps his arms over the inspector and holds him close.

 

Javert wakes in the middle of the night.

For a moment, he panics. Someone is holding him around his chest, and he’s holding them too. Then he realizes it’s Valjean.

He extricates himself from the man’s grip as carefully as possible. Valjean’s face is peaceful in the dim light, his white hair mussed. Javert watches his chest rise and fall.

Then he tears his gaze away. He shivers and looks down at his arms.

He’s only in his tank top.

Javert begins to hyperventilate, looking around frantically for wherever he put his shirt. It’s under Valjean’s legs. He grabs it, shrugging it on, and a sense of protection settles over him. He looks down at Valjean again.

He looks so calm.

Javert sighs, then leans down and kisses his cheek. “Sleep well,” he whispers. Valjean shifts in his sleep, and contentedness fills Javert. Maybe he should stay. Why was he ever somewhere else before here anyway?

Then the image of the murdered girl comes rushing back, hitting him with the force of a wave. Javert nearly stumbles backwards. The content evaporates immediately.

He grabs his coat, then goes to the kitchen and finds a pen and paper.

_Valjean: I’m going back to my precinct to work on the case. —Javert_

He considers adding _love_ before signing his name, but doesn’t. Then he places it on the coffee table and leaves quietly.

Valjean shifts again in his sleep, a small smile still on his face.

 

On August 23, five days after the little girl’s body is found, Javert is slamming the casework on Chabouillet’s desk. Lavigne stands two feet behind him.

“We found Lucille Benoit’s killer,” Javert says, almost with a sense of triumph. “He’s her neighbor—Daniel Coste. We have a full confession and DNA evidence.”

Chabouilet stares at the case file. “Okay. I’ll find another case for you.”

“Sir, if I may—“ Lavigne starts, but Javert interrupts him.

“Put me back on the Thénardier case,” he snarls. “Sir.”

“I will,” Chabouillet says slowly, reaching for the file. “Lavigne, you may go. Dumont needs help on his current case, and you may partner with him.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lavigne is out the door like a shot.

“Javert?”

Javert pauses at the door. “Yes, sir?”

“They found Lucille Benoit’s body barely five days ago. How’d you do this so soon?”

He takes a steady breath. “She looked just like someone I know.”

“Thank you, Inspector. That’ll be all.” Chabouillet looks up as he finishes the sentence, and Javert is gone.

 

Valjean gets two texts in the middle of the day:

_I’m back on Thénardier’s tail._

_How about dinner tomorrow at 7?_

• • •

On September 2nd, Fantine takes Simplice down to the docks. They eat dinner, take a walk on the piers, and watch the sun set over the water.

“Sim.”

When Simplice looks over, Fantine is holding out a small box. She takes it, opening it.

Inside is a slim silver ring, a small crystal cresting it. She looks over at Fantine.

“Will you marry me, Simplice?”

“Yes.”

 

On the morning of September 3rd, Javert is chatting with Valjean in the flower shop when Simplice rushes in, grinning. She holds out her left hand, and the ring sparkles on her middle finger.

“Fantine asked me to marry her last night,” she says excitedly. “I said yes, of course—did she tell you at all?”

Valjean and Javert exchange a look. “She didn’t even hint at it,” Valjean replies with a smile.

“Congratulations,” Javert adds. He smiles too.

Simplice’s grin grows wider. “Inspector, I’ve worked with your precinct for six years, and that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile.”

 

On September 13th, Fauchelevent pays a surprise visit to Valjean’s apartment to find him kissing Javert on the couch. They explain the relationship to him. The next day, Fauchelevent has his weekly coffee with François Myriel Bienvenu, the local bishop.

“Jean is dating someone,” Fauchelevent tells him.

The bishop smiles. “Really? What’s their name?”

“I know him as Inspector Javert—I don’t know his first name. They seem happy.”

“That’s wonderful.” Myriel stirs even more sugar into his caramel macchiato. “He needs someone. And how are you doing?”

 

On September 21th, Dahlia picks up the telephone at 4:17 in the afternoon. “La Petit Fleurs flower shop. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Dahlia. How much will it be to—“

“Inspector Javert?” she asks curiously.

“Obviously,” the voice on the other end says. “How much will it be to order a bouquet of sunflowers?”

“Twenty bucks. When do you need them and where?”

“My apartment.” He lists the address. “And I need them as soon as possible.”

“Hm.” Dahlia clicks her pen, and Zephine catches her eye from across the shop. They grin at each other. “Monsieur Fauchelevent will be back in around twenty minutes. I’m sure he can squeeze in a delivery.”

“Thank you, Dahlia. That will be all.”

She hangs up, prepares a bouquet. When Fauchelevent returns, she hands it to him.

“We have a delivery for Monsieur Valjean’s inspector.”

 

On September 22nd, Fantine visits Valjean to talk about the wedding. There’s a vase of sunflowers on the kitchen table.

 

Allard is working calmly on a robbery on September 30th when Javert slams his telephone down on his desk, grinning. She flinches.

“What’s happened?” Allard asks with as much composure as possible.

“I just discovered the location of Eugéne Thénardier’s wife,” he says wickedly. “She’s holed up in a hotel at the edge of the city, staying under the alias Jondrette. Chabouillet!”

Madame Thénardier is arrested three hours later at the Blue Diamond Hotel on multiple counts. The first thing she does is ask after her children with a sneer on her face.

“They’re in foster care,” Javert replies, “with a mother who doesn’t hit them or lock them in rooms.”

 

On October 3rd, Valjean goes inside Javert’s apartment for the first time.

“Javert, this isn’t terrible, this is remarkably neat,” he says, looking around.

Javert looks up from the kitchen table, where he’s working. “How’d you get in here?”

“Picked the lock.”

He scowls. “This place is neat because I live here. I meant that some of the windows don’t open, the paint job’s overall shitty, and there used to be mice.”

“You should move in with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A small tabby cat suddenly appears, curling herself around Valjean’s feet. He gasps and picks her up. “Who’s this?”

“Celia,” Javert replies. “Chabouillet’s wife named her. Then they discovered he’s allergic to cats and gave her to me.”

“I thought you said there were mice.”

“I said there used to be mice.”

 

On October 5th, Javert gets the last of Madame Thénardier’s confession. She has enough on her record to go to prison for the rest of her life.

“Inspector.”

He stops at the door of the interrogation room. “What?”

“I…” the woman pauses. “I want to know how my children are.” There’s real concern in her voice, enough to make Javert give her an answer.

“Éponine, Azelma, and Gavroche are being cared for well by their foster mother. If you and your husband are sentenced for more than two years, which is almost guaranteed, she plans to adopt them.” Javert curls his hand around the doorknob.

“Will I ever see them again?”

“I doubt it.”

Then he walks out.

 

Valjean receives a small white wedding invitation in his mailbox on October 10th. It requests his presence at Fantine and Simplice’s wedding, which is scheduled to take place on February 16th. Javert, Fauchelevent, Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite get nearly identical invitations. The only reason Myriel doesn’t is because he’s agreed to officiate it.

That evening, Fantine and Simplice go to Javert’s apartment, dragging Valjean along behind them.

Javert opens the door halfway and surveys them. “Are either of you allergic to cats?”

“No,” Simplice replies. He lets them in.

“Why do you want to see me?” Javert asks, grabbing his glass.

Valjean frowns. “Is that coffee?”

“No?”

“Don’t drink coffee at 9 o’clock at night, you idiot.” Valjean plucks it out of his hands, and Javert scowls at him.

Simplice and Fantine have settled onto the couch. “I’m going to invite some of the officers from the precinct to the wedding,” Simplice says.

Javert’s eyes widen. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m friends with them. Not many—Chabouillet, Gisquet, Allard. Others.” Simplice raises her eyebrows. “I’m not asking your permission, Javert. I’m simply telling you ahead of time.”

Javert sinks down into his chair. “Thanks.”

 

On October 11th, Valjean gets a text from Javert.

_We shouldn’t act like a couple at the wedding._

He frowns and replies immediately. _why_

_I don’t want the other officers knowing about us._

_why? are you embarrassed about me_

_NO._ Javert’s answer is instantaneous. _I just don’t want them knowing I have a relationship with anyone._

Valjean frowns.

_let’s talk_

_Okay._

• • •

They meet at a coffee shop a few blocks away from Valjean’s apartment. He feels bad about not giving the cafe business, but he’d rather have this conversation out of Fantine’s earshot.

Javert orders nothing, at least. Valjean gets a tea. When he comes back, the inspector is surly looking, eyes on the table. Valjean lifts his chin gently.

“Look at me. I need to know why you’re so concerned with your coworkers knowing about us.”

Javert scowls. “I’m a private person, that’s all.”

“Is it?” Valjean asks. “Look, if you’re worried about them being homophobic, it doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t attend a lesbian wedding if they were.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want them to know.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Javert drums his fingers on the table forcefully. “Because I just… I don’t have a fucking answer, Valjean. It’s just the way I am. I have to have separation between things in my life. It just doesn’t make sense otherwise.”

“Okay.” Valjean reaches across the table, taking Javert’s hand in his own, and the man doesn’t resist. “I won’t ask you about it anymore.”

Javert runs his thumb over Valjean’s fingers. “Thank you.”

“I still want to be a couple at the wedding, though.”

“What?” He stops. “Why?”

Valjean smiles sadly. “I don’t want to hide the fact that we’re together, Javert. We won’t proclaim it, okay? But I don’t want to actively conceal it either.”

“Mm.”

“Thoughts?” Valjean presses.

Javert lifts his gaze to meet his eyes. “Okay. I’ll… I won’t hide it.”

“Thank you.” Valjean takes a sip of tea. “And I want to ask you to move in with me.”

“ _What?_ ”

Javert’s voice is obviously louder than he intended it to be; the people sitting around them turn to look. He scowls and lowers his voice.

“Why would I need to? I’m perfectly happy in my apartment,” he says harshly. “I don’t need to move in with you.”

Valjean doesn’t let go of his hand. “You refused to let me into it because you called it, and I quote, a ‘shithole’.”

“So?”

“God.” He sighs. “It’s not great. You admitted it yourself. There’s no reason for you not to move in with me.”

“Well…” Javert opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Why would I move in with you?”

“We’re dating. That’s what people do when they’ve been dating for a while.”

Javert scowls. “Is it?”

“I’m not particularly well versed in romance, but I believe so, yes.” Valjean gestures aimlessly. “Look, Sim and Fantine live together. So do Dahlia and Zephine. Why shouldn’t we?”

“Dahlia and Zephine are dating?”

Valjean frowns. “You haven’t noticed? They’re making out practically every time you turn around.”

“Ugh.” Javert pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m perfectly fine with our current living situation, Valjean, I don’t see any reason to change it. I don’t know why you do.”

“Because your apartment is terrible and you shouldn’t be living there.”

Javert stands up, but Valjean doesn’t let go of his hand, leading to Javert nearly pulling him up as well. “Let go of my hand.”

“Why?”

He glances down at his watch. “I have to be at work in fifteen minutes. _Let go of my hand_.”

They stare at each other tersely for a long moment; then, without lowering his eyes, Valjean lets his hand drop slowly.

“Your work schedule has remarkable dramatic timing,” he remarks, reaching for his tea. Javert huffs and ties his scarf around his throat. He tugs his lapel down. Then he gives Valjean a short nod, gathers up his phone, and leaves.

Valjean watches him go.

 

They don’t speak to each other for a few days. At first, Valjean misses Javert’s texts, but he quickly gets caught up in the storm of arranging flowers for 4 weddings within the same week. As for Javert, he doesn’t mind it at all and works even harder on the Thénardier case. At first. And then he begins to realize that he’s drowning in his work and Valjean, his usual savior, is nowhere to be found.

Six days afterwards, Javert is outside on a smoke break when he gets a call from Valjean. He tries to ignore it, but the phone keeps ringing.

He sighs and takes the call. “What do you want?”

“I think we should apologize to each other.”

Javert raises his eyebrows, despite the fact Valjean can’t see him. “Oh?”

“Mm. I don’t know, though.”

“Maybe you should because you called the place where I live terrible,” Javert growls. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Come on, Javert! You called it a shithole yourself!”

He lights another cigarette. “I can say that because I _live_ there. You don’t. Your apartment is nice. It’s not the same.”

“I—Javert—Can we please stop this?”

“Stop what?”

“Fighting.”

He almost laughs. “This is normal for me, Valjean. We’d have to be screaming at each other for me to even call it that.”

“God, you’re so irritating—”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“—sometimes,” Valjean finishes. “You’re so irritating _sometimes_. When can we talk about this?”

“Never. We can talk about this _never_ because I’m not going to move in with you.”

Valjean hisses on the other side of the phone. “Lower your voice.”

“Oh, lower my voice?” he mocks. “Sure! Definitely! I’ll lower my voice!”

“ _Stop._ ”

“Why?”

“ _You sound—you sound like them_.”

Javert freezes.

“I’m sorry, Valjean,” he says quietly. He means it. “Sorry.”

Valjean takes a shuddering breath. “Thank you. Cosette wants to see you.”  

This time Javert does laugh. “What? Why?”

“She thinks it’s cool that you’re a police inspector. They have a career day at school, and they have their parents come in and talk about what they do. She wants you to come.”

“I’m not her _parent_.”

“She thinks of you like that, kinda. Since you’re dating me. Like a stepfather, sort of.”

“Fine,” Javert snorts. “When do I need to see her?”

“Is tomorrow good? At 3:00?”

“God.”

“Is it?”

“It’s fine, Valjean,” he replies. Then he hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket.

He doesn’t go back inside for nearly another 20 minutes.

 

Career day goes well. Cosette looks to be bursting with pride the entire time, warming Javert’s heart somehow. The only rough patch is when she introduces him.

“Cosette,” the teacher asks, “whio have you brought?”

Cosette grins. “This is Inspector Javert, Ms. Waugh! He’s my Papa’s boyfriend.”

Javert feels his face heat. One of the little boys in the front tilts his head, frowning, then raises his hand.

“Yeah?” Javert asks.

“How are you her _dad’s_ boyfriend?”

He has to stop himself from groaning. “He’s very handsome. Do you want to hear about what it’s like to be a police inspector?”

“ _Yes_!” Éponine Thénardier yells, practically leaping out of her seat.

 _Thank God for you, Éponine._ “How about one of the cases I just—“ he pauses. The only case he’s finished recently is Lucille Benoit’s murder. “One I’m working on right now?” _Shit_. _Thénardier_.

The class clamors for it, and he tells them the process, omitting names. Éponine grins the entire time, and Javert wonders how much she knows.

The teacher—Ms. Waugh—looks vaguely concerned only when he tells the kids about Chabouillet’s stabbing by Montparnasse.

Valjean picks him up afterwards, since he dropped Javert off. They drive in silence for a while.

“How was Career Day?” Valjean asks eventually.

“Fine. Éponine was especially interested in it.”

They settle into quiet again, but it’s uncomfortable. Finally, Javert takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he says, forcing the words out of his lips.

Valjean smiles sadly. “I’m sorry for being so blunt about your apartment.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

Javert nods, and Valjean reaches for his hand. He pulls it away quickly. “Not while you’re driving. You can barely manage with both hands on the wheel.”

“Okay, okay.” Somehow, Valjean is smiling. “Do you want to come over on Halloween?”

“Why?”

“Cosette loves it, and she wants you there.”

He sighs, drumming his hand on the armrest. “Do I have to wear a costume or some shit?”

“No,” Valjean replies, and they’re pulling up to the precinct. Javert grabs his bag. Then he hesitates with his hand on the door handle.

He leans over and kisses Valjean quickly. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Valjean replies. Javert tips his hat, then gets out.

 

October passes. Javert visits on Halloween, and Cosette is ecstatic. They slide into November.


	5. An Unwanted Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert take the next step in their relationship. Fantine is confronted by a face of her past.

_do you want to come over for dinner sometime_

Javert considers Valjean’s offer. Even though the two of them have dates over meals often, neither has cooked for the other in all the time they’ve known each other. Not that Javert _can_ cook—he’d only be able to order takeout or make a microwave meal.

He hasn’t had a home cooked meal in years.

He’s still vaguely upset with Valjean, so he waits for ten minutes before responding. _Sure_. _When do you want to?_

_how about tomorrow at 8_

_Works for me._

Valjean replies with a thumbs-up emoji. Javert smirks, then turns to his case again.

 

Valjean’s nearly done cooking when there’s a knock at the door. He smiles to himself. “Come in, Javert.”

“What did you make?” Javert asks as he walks inside, already removing his coat. It smells good.”

“Just a simple casserole, nothing much. It should be ready soon.”

He glances over at Javert, who is leaning on the counter. He looks vaguely awestruck. Valjean chuckles.

“Don’t you cook? You’ve been a bachelor all your life.”

Javert shrugs. “I eat mostly takeout and microwave meals. Cooking takes time I barely have.”

“That’s because you overwork yourself.” Valjean kisses his cheek, and he flushes. “I’ll teach you to cook one day, right after I force you to learn self-care.”

“It’s a thankless job,” Javert replies.

“Not for me.”

 

When they’ve finished eating, Javert is obviously reluctant to go. Valjean isn’t eager to watch him leave, either.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” he suggests. Javert raises his _eyebrows._

“What would you pick?”

“Um…” he pauses. “ _Dead Poets Society_? I think I have that one.”

“Sure.”

The movie’s runtime is over 2 hours, something Valjean remembers only when they’re already halfway through. He grows drowsy. When he begins to lean heavily on Javert, Javert leans on him too, even putting his arm around Valjean.

When the movie’s over, Valjean stands up, yawning. Something in the window catches his eye, and he walks over to inspect it. The street is cloaked in a thick blanket of white. Snow is still falling heavily.

“It’s awful out there,” Valjean remarks as he peers down.

“Fuck.” Javert gets up and looks outside too. “I can’t drive home in that. If it was light out, maybe, but not now.”

“You can stay the night,” Valjean says offhandedly. He glances up to see that Javert is blushing deeply.

“Valjean, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—“

He resists the urge to laugh. “I don’t want you to get hurt driving home,” Valjean says gently. He drapes his arms over Javert, resting his head on his shoulder.

The man huffs. “Valjean.”

“What?”

“Fine.” Javert blows an irritated breath through his teeth. “I’ll… crash on your couch.”

Valjean smiles. “I’m gonna get a blanket and pillow for you, then go to bed.”

“Thanks,” Javert mumbles, sitting down on the couch again.

Once he’s gotten the blanket and pillow, Valjean kisses Javert. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Javert smiles tiredly, and the sight warms Valjean’s heart.

 

When Javert wakes up, he has no idea why.

He can see the clock in the kitchen reading 2:13. He sighs. He doubts he’ll be able to sleep anymore tonight, but he doesn’t have anything to do.

“I’ll get some water,” he mumbles to himself.

Then he hears Valjean’s voice. Javert can’t make out the words, but he’s obviously in distress.

“Valjean?” Javert calls, but there’s no answer. He gets up and goes to Valjean’s room, peering inside.

Valjean is clutching his pillow, mumbling in his sleep. His face is pained. Suddenly, his body jerks, and he cries out.

Javert walks inside cautiously and kneels beside the bed. “Valjean?” he whispers. Then, with more intent, “Valjean. Jean, wake up.”

Valjean bolts upright. The look in his eyes is that of a cornered animal. He trembles, his gaze unfocused.

“Jean, it’s only me,” Javert says as gently as he can.

“Javert?” Valjean asks, voice terrified.

“Yes.”

“Javert,” Valjean repeats. Then he seems to come to his senses, to realize his surroundings. He collapses onto Javert’s shoulders and hugs him tightly. His chest still heaves.

Javert hugs him back. “What happened?”

“Prison nightmare,” Valjean says in a trembling voice. “I get them a lot.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Javert?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay with me the rest of the night?”

Javert pulls back and looks at him. “What?”

Valjean crushes the sheets in his fists. “I-I feel better when you’re here. And I think that maybe, if you stay, I won’t get another nightmare tonight.”

“I—“ Javert studies Valjean’s face. The man is in such anguish; how can he deny him this? “Okay.”

Awkwardly, he rises and climbs into the bed beside Valjean. Instantly, he buries his face in Javert’s shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Jean,” Javert breathes, wrapping his arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

Valjean only holds Javert tighter.

 

“Jean!”

Valjean struggles awake and sits up. Fantine is standing in the doorway of his room.

“Thank God,” she says. “I need you to take Cosette to school. Sim’s sick as a dog and I have to—“

Valjean puts a finger to his lips. “Sh. I’ll do it, but sh.”

“Why?”

Beside him, Javert stirs from sleep. He pushes himself up on his elbows. “Wasgoinon?”

Fantine’s eyes widen. “Okay. Um. Jean, can I talk to you for a bit in the kitchen?”

“Fine,” he replies.

“Where are you goin’?” Javert mumbles into his pillow, having already fallen back onto the mattress.

Valjean stretches. “To talk to Fantine, then to take Cosette to school.”

“Okay.”

 

Fantine is sitting on the counter when Valjean walks in, twisting her hair around her fingers. Her eyes are wide.

“What’s Javert doing in your bed?” she asks, swinging her legs.

Valjean turns red. “I had a nightmare and he comforted me, so I asked him to stay. Nothing happened.”

“I thought that you two weren’t really dating and that you broke it off back in June.”

“We did,” he mumbles and looks at the floor. “And then we realized that we were actually attracted to each other and got together. It happened in August. I thought Fauchelevent told you.”

Fantine shakes her head. “He didn’t. And I need you to take Cosette to school. Sorry, by the way.”

“Why?” Valjean asks, grabbing his coat.

“She’s pissed because they didn’t have a snow day today. Be careful out there.”

He sighs. “Thanks, Fantine.”

 

Javert is sitting at the kitchen table when Valjean returns, his hair down. Valjean grins despite his fatigue.

“What?” Javert asks.

“Your—your hair. I’ve never seen it down. I love it.”

He scowls. “I hate you.”

Javert’s hair is in a neat bob, cut halfway down his neck. _It’s adorable._ But Valjean can only look at it for a moment before Javert pulls his hair tie off his wrist, twisting his hair into a ponytail again. Then he rests his elbows on the table and puts his forehead in his hands. “I think I should move in with you.”

Valjean frowns. “What?”

“You won,” Javert replies, not moving. “I’ll move in with you. Are you okay with my cat moving in, too?”

“Celia! I love Celia, sure. Why this sudden change of heart?” he asks, pulling out a chair.

Javert looks up. “Last night.”

“Oh.”

Valjean looks at the table.

“Look.” Javert leans across, taking Valjean’s face in his hands. “It isn’t out of pity, Valjean. It’s just… I saw you, and you were in such _pain_. I don’t want you to be like that again. And you said that it was better with me.”

Valjean nods sadly. “It is.”

“And I…” Javert takes a deep breath and sits back. He drums his fingers anxiously.

“I know why I was so insistent on staying in my place. I’m going to tell you, even if you hate it. It’s simply a fact.”

Valjean meets his eye, and waits.  

 

Javert takes another deep breath. But he doesn’t rip his gaze away from Valjean’s, and his expression remains neutral.

“I’m transgender,” he says simply. “I’m a trans man.”

He holds Valjean’s gaze, steely-eyed, as if daring him to make a comment. And he doesn’t back down. Valjean pauses, trying to find the right words.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says finally. “And I’m completely okay with that. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Good,” Javert replies, jutting his chin out.

Valjean reaches across and takes his hands. “You can tell me things when you’re ready.”

“As if I’d do anything else,” Javert snorts. Then his face grows serious. “I think—I _know_ that I didn’t want to move in with you because you didn’t know. I didn’t know how you react. I mean, I’d be _living_ here. You’d see me doing HRT, see my chest scars… everything you’d need to piece it together.”

Valjean pauses again. “I’m glad you told me, instead of leaving me to deduce it.”

“That would’ve taken months.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask who knows?” he asks, tentatively. Javert shrugs.

“Sure. Not a lot. My mother, obviously, Chabouillet. Gisquet. The paramedics who work with us, for medical reasons. Simplice knows, actually.”

“Do you know…?”

“That she’s trans too? Yeah. She came into the precinct when she first started working with us, _hugged_ me, and said it was a relief to know someone like her.” Javert strokes his chin. “I have no idea what the other officers assumed she was talking about. I made her go outside with me and asked what the hell she meant.” He smiles his toothy smile. “I bet it’s why she’s so excited about her wedding. To be able to be called a bride, to fully embrace her femininity and finally marry Fantine… in one way, I don’t understand at all, and I do completely in another. Like how I was so excited to grow my sideburns.”

“They look incredible,” Valjean says, smiling.

Javert blushes a little. “Thank you.”

“Very ferocious.”

“Shut up.”

Valjean snickers. Then he stands, letting go of Javert’s hands. “Black coffee for you?”

“Why would I ask for anything else?”

He checks the cupboards. Behind him, Javert snickers.

“What?”

“Are you standing on your tiptoes?”

Valjean whips around furiously. “No!”

“You _are_ ,” Javert marvels, walking over. He compares their heights. “You’re so _short_. This is amazing.”

“Well—“ he can feel his face reddening. “You’re abnormally tall. How big are you, even? Roughly the size of a tree?”

“6’2. You?”

 Valjean doesn’t answer, just crosses his arms and stares at the ground. Javert cackles.

“You have to be at _least_ half a foot shorter than me!”

“You’re taller than everyone. This doesn’t count,” he mumbles.

Javert’s expression remains gleeful. “I can’t believe you’re this short.”

“I’m 5’8,” Valjean snaps. “That isn’t short. And I can still snap you like a twig.”

“I know.”

A thought enters his head, and Valjean hops up onto the counter. He runs a finger over Javert’s collarbone. “I don’t have any coffee. If you want some, you’ll have to get dressed and go to the cafe.”

The inspector looks down at Valjean’s hand with a frown, his cheeks filled with color. “Let go of me.”

Valjean only looks at him with a doe-eyed expression.

“Valjean.”

He leans in for a quick kiss, feeling the heat of Javert’s face, and then leaps down from the counter. “What you waiting for? Get dressed!”

“Valjean!” Javert yells, turning after him. Valjean laughs and dashes into his room.

 

There’s very few people at the cafe, probably both due to the early hour and the snow. The world is quieter, somehow, sound absorbed by the drifts. Valjean is far more comfortable in the cafe than Javert has ever seen him.

Fantine’s the only person behind the counter. An indecipherable expression slides across her face when she sees Javert with Valjean, and she leans on the counter.

“Morning, guys,” she says. “What’ll it be?”

“One black coffee.”

“Lemon tea, please.” Valjean’s eyes flick to Javert. “And two croissants.”

“I don’t need a croissant,” Javert snaps.

“Three croissants.”

Fantine snickers. “You two bicker like an old married couple. Although, to be honest, the only thing you’re missing is the married part. Hang on.”

She returns quickly. Valjean tries to tip her, and she refuses. Predictably. Javert’s heard about why she and Simplice put off marriage for so long.

He and Valjean sit down in a booth in the back, Valjean curling up in the seat. He curves his hands around the cup of tea, inhaling deeply. A peaceful expression has settled on his face.

Javert tests the temperature of his coffee with a finger. “Why was Fantine like that?”

“Hm?”

“This morning. I remember seeing her when I woke up, and then she left quickly, as if she was embarrassed. It was… odd.”

Valjean turns pink. “She, um, thought we slept together.”

“But we—“ Javert’s eyes widen. “Oh, God. I—no.”

“Yeah,” Valjean mumbles. “I explained it to her.” Then he leans across the table, lowering his voice. “You don’t… are interested in that sort of thing?”

“Sex? No,” Javert replies, feeling his face heat. The other man gives a nervous laugh.

“I’m not really either. I’m glad you aren’t, because now… now I don’t have to worry about it.”

Valjean leans back, sipping at his tea, but Javert still feels his brows knot. He clears his throat.

“Valjean, if I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable…” he gestures vaguely. “Tell me."

Valjean smiles softly and nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

Javert picks up his coffee once more. He takes a long drink, aware his face has become flushed. Then he notices the time on his watch. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Today’s shift starts in twenty minutes.” He starts to stand up, grabbing the croissant. “I’ll text you about moving in, but I gotta run.“

Valjean sighs. “Can’t you take a day off?”

“I haven’t taken a day off willingly in years. Bye.” Javert kisses his cheek quickly.

“Fine, but can I borrow your phone for a sec?” Valjean asks, a pout on his face.

“Why not use yours?”

He shrugs. “Left it in my apartment. _Our_ apartment.”

Javert huffs. “It’s not _our_ apartment until I move in and start to pay rent. Here. The passcode is—“ he leans forward, lowering his voice “—077381. Hurry up.”

“Thanks,” Valjean says as he punches it in.

“What do you even need it for?” Javert asks suspiciously.

“Nothing.”Then Valjean holds the phone up to his ear, waiting. “Ah, hello? May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

He pauses, and fear strikes Javert. Valjean continues. “Yes, I’m calling on the behalf of Inspector Javert. I’m Jean Valjean, his…” Valjean looks up at him, “boyfriend.”

“Valjean!” Javert hisses, leaning over the table. Valjean grins and turns away.

“I’m calling him off of work today,” he says. “Dreadfully sorry. No, he isn’t sick; it’s just I feel like he’s been overworking himself and he needs a break. He was also up very late last night.”

“Give it to me!”

Valjean manages to keep his voice level, although his face is awash with glee. “Thank you—is it Director? Good. Thank you, Director Chabouillet. It was lovely talking to you.”

Then he turns the phone off and drops it on the table.

Javert glares at him, furious. “What did you _do_?”

“I simply called your precinct and told them that you wouldn’t be coming in today,” Valjean replies, reaching for his croissant. “I told them I was making you take a day off for overwork. Chabouillet agreed with me. He seems to be a very nice man.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Javert sits down in his seat again, scowling. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Valjean replies with a grin.

He hates to admit it, but Valjean does seem to be right.

• • •

Fantine glances around. Javert and Valjean are bickering at one table in the corner, Zephine is ringing up a teenage girl’s sale, and the few other customers are occupied. She grabs her phone, just to see if Simplice has texted back.

There’s a message from Favourite instead.

_I’m free rn & gonna be at the cafe in 7 min_

She grins. Favourite rarely come round, usually communicating in Snapchats and cryptic text messages. She hasn’t appeared in three months.

“Zephine!” Fantine whispers, turning round, but she’s still helping the teenager. Fantine waits patiently, cupping her phone to her chest.

“Excuse me.”

She turns. Then she freezes.

Félix Tholomyès is standing in front of the counter.

Fantine scowls. “Get out.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

“I know why you’re here, Tholomyès,” she says in a harsh whisper. “Get the fuck out of my cafe.”

“You know my name?”

Fantine stares at him. “You don’t know me?”

“No, I—“ Then realization dawns over his features, and he sneers. “You’re that little flirt, Fantine. God, I never thought I’d see you again.”

“That’s because I have a _fucking_ restraining order against you,” she hisses.

“Not anymore, sweetheart. Expired 3 years ago.” He reaches for her, and she flinches back.

“Time has made you ugly, Tholomyès,” Fantine spits. “I remember you as a boyish, ginger frat boy. Now you just look hideous.”

He snickers. “You’re still as bitchy as I remember.”

“Why the hell are you here?”

They turn to see Zephine striding over, fury on her face. She’s shorter than even Fantine, only an inch or two over 5 foot, but she’s still intimidating. She slams her hands on the counter. "Out, asshole.”

Tholomyès laughs. “Oh yeah, the ch—“

“If you finish that fucking slur I will knock your teeth out,” Zephine hisses. “And I’m not even Chinese, you idiot. I’m Filipino.”

“Oh, come on.” He grins wickedly. “Fantine, I haven’t seen you in years! And suddenly, I’m in a new town for a conference, and I wind up at your cafe. Such serendipity. Don’t you miss me?”

She holds up her left hand. “I’m getting married. I don’t miss you an inch, you racist, abusive, sexist _idiot_.”

“What’s his name?” Tholomyès asks, mockery in his voice.

“ _Her_ name is Simplice. And she loves me, and actually cares about my daughter.”

“Oh, so you’re a lesbian now?”

Fantine leans forward, gripping the counter. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Cafe.”

By now, they’ve attracted the attention of the other customers. Valjean is walking over quickly, Javert behind him, and suddenly Fantine is staring at a broad, plaid-clothed back.

She stands straight again.

“Fantine’s asked you to leave.” Valjean’s crossed his arms, staring straight into Tholomyès’ eyes. “Leave now.”

Javert meets Fantine’s gaze, a look of confusion on his face. _Abusive ex_ , she mouths. He nods and turns his cold eye on Tholomyès.

“Why do you care?” the man asks.

Valjean cracks his knuckles, almost idly. “Because she asked you to do something reasonable and you haven’t.”

“Look, dude—“

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Sir,” Tholomyès says mockingly, “how is it reasonable that this bitch asked me to leave?”

“Because you abused her for two years, abandoned her when you realized she, a 19-year-old at the time, was expecting a child, and received a restraining order from her.”

Javert unhooks his badge from his belt. “A restraining order?”

“Look, cop,” Tholomyès says nervously, “it’s expired. It expired years ago.”

Javert glances at Fantine. “Is he lying?”

Tholomyès cuts her off before she can answer. “No!”

Valjean steps forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. With more force than necessary, judging from Tholomyès’ expression. “Get out of here.”

Then he shoves him backwards. Tholomyès stumbles back, and back, and back, and then he’s running into Favourite, who has just come through the door.

Favourite scowls. “What right do you have to come back here, dickhead?”

“Favourite,” Tholomyès hisses.

“Yeah. Um, quick question—“ she glances out the window “—is that blue Mercedes yours?”

He laughs. “That pussy car? The silver Chevrolet’s mine.”

“Thanks.” She grabs her ring of keys, then heads out the door.

Valjean glares over at Tholomyès. “Are you going to leave? Or should I escort you out the back alley, where no one would see how your nose started bleeding?”

Tholomyès looks at him with shock. He turns and flees out the door. The few other customers watch him, confusion on their faces, and Fantine feels her heart pound in her chest. She turns and walks swiftly into the back room. There are a few stools scattered around the floor, a result of her and Zephine’s short heights.

Fantine sinks onto one. She clutches her arms, her chest heaving, and blinks back tears.

 

Valjean leaves Zephine and Javert in the main part of the cafe to follow Fantine. She’s curled up on a stool in the corner.

He kneels beside her and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

In response, Fantine bursts into sobs.

Valjean feels a rush of pity, and he puts his arms around Fantine. She leans against him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She sniffles, twisting her hands in her hair.

The door opens again. It’s Javert, hesitation on his face. He doesn’t move from the doorway. “How long ago was this restraining order taken out?”

“Eight years ago,” Fantine croaks.

“They usually last five years, and then you can renew it or extend it permanently.”

She wipes her eyes. “I renewed it three years ago. I just—I just don’t want him around Cosette.”

Valjean shakes his head. “Or around you. He’s awful.”

Fantine tilts her head backwards. “Would you really have broken his nose if he hadn’t left?”

“Maybe,” he replies, shrugging. “I would’ve roughed him up a little at least. And that’s illegal, so we would’ve made Javert close his eyes.”

She giggles half heartedly as Javert scowls.

Javert crosses his arms. “If you renewed the order three years ago, that means that he did in fact break it by coming here, even if unintentionally. And he didn’t leave once he recognized you. That’s a misdemeanor at the least. What’s his name?”

“Félix Tholomyès,” A new voice supplies. Valjean glances over to see Favourite pushing past Javert, brushing silver flakes off her keys. She sits on Fantine’s other side.

“Hey, Favourite,” Fantine says, a sad expression on her face. Valjean watches her worriedly.

He can clearly remember what it was like when he met her. Cosette had been a year old, Fantine had been 20, and they’d been living on the streets for two months. Fantine had been raised in foster care nearly her entire life, and hadn’t had anywhere to go. She’d been forced to do terrible things just to feed Cosette, and she’d been sick with tuberculosis.

Valjean had managed to get her to a hospital, had paid for her treatment and took care of Cosette for the eight months Fantine was hospitalized. He’d grown close with them. Fantine grew close to him too, as well as the young woman interning with the nurses. Simplice, as a matter of fact.

Fantine had finally managed to leave the hospital. With Valjean and her friend’s help, she was getting ready to open her cafe.

And then Tholomyès had shown up again, and it had come dangerously close to all crashing down.

Valjean had been disturbed by the man’s disrespect for Fantine, his treatment of Cosette, and the fact he was four years Fantine’s elder. Fantine’s mental state had begun to deteriorate. Then she had made the decision to file a restraining order against Tholomyès, and he’d turned tail.

_And now he’s back_.

Valjean runs a hand through his hair. “What does he work as?”

“He went to law school,” Favourite replies. She takes one of Fantine’s hands in her own. “He’s a malpractice lawyer, and also has a side business of inheriting his father’s nearly one million-dollar estate.”

Javert groans. “A nice cushion of money.”

“He’s not going to get hurt at all by this,” Fantine mumbles. She hugs her knees. “There’s no point.”

Valjean frowns. “Don’t say that. We’re going to sort this out.”

But Fantine’s eyes are glimmering with tears again, and she doesn’t look remotely convinced.

• • •

Simplice blinks awake, then groans. She feels awful. At least she’s not throwing up anymore. The room is dark; she glances at the digital clock in the corner.

1:24.

She shifts under the quilts. The other side of the bed is empty. She touches it. The blankets are cold, and Fantine’s been gone a while. Simplice frowns. it’s not like Fantine to stay up into the early hours of the morning.

She forces herself upright, then swings her legs over the bed and stands. Immediately, nausea washes over her, and her body starts to feel chilled. Simplice grabs one of the smaller blankets and wraps it over her shoulders.

“Fantine?” she calls quietly. There’s no response.

Simplice groans. Then she makes her way out of the room. The kitchen and living room are both empty. She checks Cosette’s room, but the only occupant is Cosette herself, sleeping soundly. Simplice sighs and turns to the bathroom. She tries the knob.

It’s locked.

“Fantine?” she asks softly. “Are you all right?”

“Go away.”

Fantine’s voice is rough, as though she’s been crying. Simplice frowns. She tries the knob again, and it doesn’t budge.

“Let me in,” she says, gently as she can. A wave of dizziness washes over her, and she steadies herself on the door. Fantine doesn’t respond this time.

“Fantine, please,” Simplice says. There is still no answer.

Simplice leans against the door. A sick feeling is in the bottom of her stomach, and not from being ill. The bathroom has no key, only locks from the inside, and Simplice is currently too weak to force it. The only way Fantine will come out is by her own volition. But if Simplice knows her fiancé, the worse the outcome will be the longer Fantine is alone.

Simplice feels tears tugging at her eyes. “Fantine, please open the door.”

Fantine doesn’t reply, not that Simplice expected her to, and the lock doesn’t click open. Simplice has a terrible feeling that they’ll be standing like this until dawn. She doubts she’s strong enough to last until then.

Unless. _Unless_.

 

Five minutes later Simplice is knocking at Jean Valjean’s door, clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She’s not bold enough to use the key and wake Valjean, and possibly Javert, up in the middle of the night.

“Monsieur Jean!” Simplice calls. She curls her fingers tighter around the blanket’s edge and continues knocking. A moment later Valjean opens the door, dressed in sweats and a tank top. His brow furrows when he sees Simplice.

“Simplice, what are you doing here?’ he asks. ‘I thought you were sick—you shouldn’t be outside in those clothes.”

Simplice glances down at her outfit. She’s only in sweatpants and a t-shirt, her feet in sneakers hastily pulled on. “I _am_ sick. I need your help—Fantine’s locked herself in the bathroom and I can’t get her out. I don’t know what she did, but she sounds like she’s been crying, and we need to get to her as soon as possible.”

Valjean’s eyes go wide. “I’ll help.”

Soon they’re standing in front of the bathroom door, snow on both their shoulders. Simplice shivers despite the warmth of the apartment.

“Do you have a bobby pin I can use to pick the lock?” Valjean asks, and Simplice shakes her head.

“I don’t use them, and neither does Fantine.” She’s not surprised that he knows how to pick locks.

“All right, then. I apologize in advance for the damage I’ll do to the door.”

Then Valjean’s backing up. He runs at the door, turning his shoulder to hit it like a battering ram. There’s an unholy cracking sound. Then the door swings open, Valjean holds his shoulder, and the two of them peer into the room before them.

Fantine is standing in front of the mirror, her hands on the edge of the porcelain sink. Her back is to them. A pair of scissors sits by her feet.

Her hair’s been chopped off.

She cut it unevenly, and some parts are shorter than others. the shortest end around the tips of her ears, the longest at the earlobes.

Locks of golden hair lie at Fantine’s feet, discarded. Her chest heaves silently.

“Fantine,” Simplice whispers. she lets go of the blanket and gently takes Fantine’s wrists in hand, pulling her away from the sink. Valjean grabs the scissors off the floor. Fantine turns to Simplice. Her eyes are wide and red, and tear tracks roll down her face. She doesn’t move, just looks at Simplice with a wary look in her eye.

Simplice tries to hug her, tries to wrap her arms around her fiancé, but suddenly nausea rolls its way over her. It’s her turn to grab the sink, to heave, but there’s nothing left in her stomach. She sags against the wall.

Valjean meets her eyes awkwardly. “I’ll take her into the living room.”

“Thank you,” Simplice whispers. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

Valjean takes Fantine’s shoulder in a hand, trying to move her, but she doesn’t budge. He sighs. Then he sweeps her up, carrying her like a child, and walks out of the room.

Simplice sits down on the floor, trying to steady herself. Her mind whirs, and she feels so sick and overwhelmed. She wishes she were well. She thanks God Fantine didn’t do anything worse than cut her hair.

She murmurs a Hail Mary. Then Simplice forces herself up, forces herself out of the bathroom. She leaves the tufts of hair behind. Those will be taken care of later; First, Fantine must be cared for.

Fantine is curled up on the couch, her arms around her knees. Valjean moves in the kitchen. With a glance, Simplice sees the pot of water on the stove and the tea box in his hands. She nods, almost to herself, then walks over to the couch.

“Hey, love.” She sits beside Fantine. “What’s wrong?”

Fantine doesn’t say anything, just reaches out and takes Simplice’s hand in her own. She slumps her head against the worn side of the couch.

“Monsieur Jean?” Simplice asks, and Valjean looks up. “When the tea’s finished, please pour three cups.”

Valjean nods.

A while later, the three of them sit in a sort of circle. Fantine is still unresponsive, but neither Simplice or Valjean have prompted her to talk in a long time. Simplice sets her mug down, then takes Fantine’s other hand in hers.

“Fantine, love,” she says gently, “do you want to tell us why you cut off your hair?”

“I…” Fantine closes her eyes. “I don’t know why.”

“Okay.”

Valjean leans forward. “Are you tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it in the morning, instead of now?”

Fantine yawns. “Y-yeah.”

Simplice nods. “It would be good for you to rest. Jean, I’m sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night. you can go back home.”

“It’s okay, Simplice.” Valjean pauses. “You needed to wake me.” He leaves, but not before putting his half-empty mug of tea into the sink.

Fantine leans into Simplice, clutching at her. With her free hand, simplice smoothes the spikes of blonde hair. Fantine closes her eyes. Soon, she has fallen asleep.

“Oh, love,” Simplice murmurs.

 

Valjean gets a phone call at 7:13 that morning. He groans, grabbing it, and the caller ID reads _Simplice_.

“Hey, where do you get your hair cut?”

“Why? Oh.” He struggles to remember. “Cohen Barbershop, on 4th and 17th. But it’s a bunch of men, Sim. Are you really sure you want Fantine to go there?”

“She needs a proper cut, and she can’t go to my hairdresser. She’s white.” 

“Why not take her to her usual hairdresser?”

She sighs. “She won’t tell me, and I’m such a shit girlfriend I never bothered to learn.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Valjean snaps. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, okay? You’re a great girlfriend. Just… ask Dahlia or Zephine. I bet they know.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He shuts his phone off and places it on his chest, one hand over it. He sighs. Then he picks it up again and calls Javert.

“What do you want?”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you?” Valjean murmurs.

“I will restate the question. What do you want?”

“You at work?”

“Of course.”

He sighs, shifting under the blankets. “I thought you didn’t work on Saturdays.”

“I really want to finish up this Thénardier case. It’s dragged on since June,” Javert replies. Valjean can hear him looking through papers.

“Hm. Do you have time to check up on Félix Tholomyès’ restraining order?”

“I…” he pauses. “Maybe. Why?”

“Fantine broke down and cut off her hair last night.”

There’s a pause, far too long than what it should be. “Shit.”

“I know,” Valjean says quietly, sitting up. “She… she had to sell her hair, when she was younger, to get money. I’m thinking seeing Tholomyès might’ve triggered those memories, or something. She’s really upset.”

“Shit.”

“I just want to get this tied up.” He bunches the covers in his free hand.

Javert’s voice is the softest Valjean’s ever heard it. “I’ll check.”

“I hate it when rich white people get away with stuff nobody else ever would,” Valjean whispers.

“The law ought to be the same for everyone. It’s shitty.” A thud echoes through the line, and Valjean suspects Javert has just put his feet up on his desk. “I’ll look for the order. We’re going to get Tholomyès.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a short silence, and yet neither of them hang up. Valjean sighs. “Can you call me again today, to talk about moving in?”

“I can talk right now.”

“I mean when I’m not half-asleep. Noon good?”

“Yeah. I’m on my break then.”

“Okay,” Valjean breathes. Then a thought occurs to him. “Hey, where do you get your hair cut?”

“Nowhere. I cut it myself; barbershops cost money.”

“Ah.”

• • •

Simplice ends up taking Fantine to her usual hairdresser, the name provided by Dahlia. When they return, Fantine’s hair has been shaped into a high bob cut. She can’t stop feeling the edges, fingers trembling.

Valjean and Simplice force her to take three days off of work to recover. When she returns, her usual customers ask why she cut her hair.

Fantine looks at her shoes. “It, uh, was time for a change,” she says softly.

They don’t quite believe her, but they let it be.

Javert moves in the next Saturday, November 17. It goes smoothly for the most art. Valjean’s apartment fits the two nicely. It isn’t large, but both are frugal men, with little belongings.

The problems are the desk and the beds.

Javert has a desk, naturally.

“Where are we going to put that?” Valjean mumbles. Javert shrugs his head wordlessly. It’s already nearing 6 o’clock in the afternoon, and they’ve worked out most of the major issues. The desk, however, has no place to go.

Finally, it gets shoved in the corner of the living room. Valjean says something about it being temporary, but both men have a nagging feeling it will stay there as long as Javert lives in the apartment. Then they turn to the bed.

There isn’t enough space for both of their beds in Valjean’s room. And despite their current relationship, Javert isn’t eager to share one.

“It’s just that I’ve never slept with anyone before,” he says stubbornly. Valjean snickers.

Javert glares at him. “Grow up.”

“I'll stop,” Valjean replies. He manages to regain a straight face. “Look, why don’t we see which bed is bigger and use that one? Then you can sleep as far away from me as possible.”

“Sure.”

The bigger bed belongs to Javert.

He cackles as they put it into place. Valjean shakes his head with a smile. Then the two of them fall back onto the mattress, and a comfortable silence settles over them.

Finally, Valjean reaches for Javert’s hand. “I’m worried about Fantine,” he says softly.

“I know.” Javert intertwines their fingers. “I’ve done what I can about the restraining order. A complaint has been filed against Tholomyès and is due to be processed by January.” He looks over at Valjean. “But you’re worried about _her_.”

“She needs a therapist, or at least professional help. I doubt she can afford it, though, what with the wedding and all.”

“You can offer to help pay,” Javert remarks. He pauses. “And Fantine will never let you.”

Valjean smiles. “You’re getting better at these social cues, you know?”

“Who’s to say I was never good at them?”

He simply looks at Javert with eyebrows raised.

“Okay, I will admit that, perhaps, in the past, I may have had…”

“A range from indiscretion to total obliviousness regarding social cues,” Valjean finishes. Javert glares at him.

“I’m learning.”

“You are. It’s nice.”

“Look,” he says quietly, and Valjean can tell he’s trying to get the words out in the right manner. “Fantine… Tholomyès will face repercussions. I hope that will help her. This situation will work itself out for the best.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re in it,” Javert replies, looking over at him. “You _nerd._ ”

Valjean chuckles. “I’m not—shut up.”

“Make me.”

In response, he leans over and kisses him. Javert laughs from beneath him, wrapping his arms over his shoulders.

Valjean smiles against his lips. Then he lifts his head and rests it on Javert’s collarbone. He can hear the man’s heartbeat, slow and relaxed.

“That was one way to get me to shut up,” Javert murmurs. He runs a hand through Valjean’s hair.

“It’s my favorite.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hm.”

Valjean kisses him again. They laugh into each other’s mouths and wrap their arms over the other’s chest.

 

Fantine is curled up on the couch when Simplice gets home, a blue blanket over her shoulders. Daredevil is playing on the TV, volume low. Simplice deposits her keys on the table.

“Hey,” she says softly. Fantine looks up, then stretches her arms out wordlessly.

Simplice sits beside her, taking her in her arms.

Fantine takes a shuddering breath. She lays her head on Simplice’s chest. “Cosette’s in bed.”

“Good,” Simplice says quietly. She smoothes Fantine’s locks. “You’re watching the college flashbacks, huh?”

“Yeah. Nice and gay.”

She laughs a little. “Just like us.”

“Yeah, just like us,” Fantine whispers. She clutches at Simplice’s shirt. “Just like us.”

Simplice kisses her softly, and silence settles over them.

“I love you,” Simplice murmurs.

“I love you too.”

And then suddenly Fantine is crying. She doesn’t look up, just buries her face in Simplice’s chest and weeps. Simplice wraps her arms around her, startled.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong,” Fantine sobs. “I’m—I don’t deserve you, Sim. I can’t believe I ever thought Tholomyès was wrong about me. You need someone better, Cosette deserves a better mother. I…”

Simplice kisses her forehead gently. “Stop it, Fantine. _Do not do this to yourself_. Don’t listen to that idiot. You’re wonderful. You are a wonderful mom, you are a wonderful partner.”

“I am?” Somehow, Fantine sounds truly unsure.

“You are! You are, you are, _you are_.” Simplice holds her closer. “I love you so much. Even if there were a better person for me, I’d turn them down. Cosette couldn’t ask for a better mother, either.”

“You sure?” she asks, voice trembling. Simplice kisses her again.

“I’m sure, love. I am so sure.”

 

The days pass, and with each, Fantine grows better. She becomes self-confident once more. All watch her recovery with grateful eyes. No one dares make a comment on it, of course.

With Valjean’s help, Simplice manages to persuade her into contacting a therapist.

“You can see mine,” Valjean offers one night when the three of them, plus Javert, sit in the cafe after hours. “I’m sure she’d be willing to talk to you.”

“I’m not talking to your therapist.” Fantine tosses a crumpled up napkin at him. Javert snickers.

He sighs helplessly. “Okay.”

“I know a few therapists,” Simplice says gently. “I can recommend a few who don’t listen to Jean talk for an hour each week.”

“If that’s all you need to be a therapist, then I’m grossly overqualified,” Javert mumbles, not looking up from his paperwork. Valjean turns red.

Fantine laughs, and the others exchange a look. _She’s laughing_.

Simplice makes good on her promise, bringing Fantine to 3 different therapists before finally settling on one. A week passes, and the incident begins to fade.

And then, Dahlia catches Fantine at the end of the day, and tells her that Tholomyès showed up once more.

Fantine stills. “How didn’t I see him?”

“You were picking up Cosette from school.” Dahlia folds her hands. “He kept asking after you, saying he wanted to see you. I didn’t want to upset you while you were working.”

“I hate him,” Fantine hisses. “I hate him.”

“What are you going to do?”

She straightens. “I’m going to call the police.”


	6. Reassurances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantine faces doubts about her wedding and Tholomyès, while Javert closes in on Thénardier.

“Valjean.”

“What?”

“Get your head off my shoulder.”

Valjean, much to Javert’s chagrin, does not move his head in the slightest. They’re sitting at one of the booths in the bakery; Javert typing up casework, Valjean reading _Frankenstein._ Javert huffs and grabs his coffee.

“It’s not too much PDA, honestly,” Valjean remarks. He’s sitting with one leg up and the other stretched across the seat. He turns a page in his book.

Javert scowls. “Someone could see.”

“Who can that doesn’t know? Fantine knows, Simplice knows. Anybody who would be in here knows.”

“Maybe—“ Javert’s eyes widen. “Valjean, move to the other side of the table. All you have is your book and your food.”

Valjean sighs, but he does it anyway, sitting down cross-legged on the other side. “Why?”

“Dumont just came in. Shit, shit, shit.” Javert hastily slides Valjean’s plate across the table. “Maybe he won’t notice us. Don’t look around.”

Valjean actually listens to him. “I just realized I’ve never met anyone from your job.”

“Let’s keep it that way. Maybe if we shut up and—oh God, he’s coming over.” Javert pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

“Hi, Inspector,” Dumont says cheerfully.

“Hello,” Javert grumbles.

Dumont glances down at Valjean. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Detective Andre Dumont—who are you?”

“I’m Jean Valjean,” Valjean replies, smiling. “I’m Javert’s—“

 _Don’t fucking say it_.

“—boyfriend.” Valjean glances at Javert. “It’s nice to meet you.”

They shake hands. Javert doesn’t fail to notice the expression of glee that slides across Dumont’s face. He crosses his arms in a huff.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Dumont asks.

Valjean and Javert glance at each other. “Three years,” Javert blurts out. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Valjean raise his eyebrows.

Dumont blinks. “That’s cool. How’d you meet?”

“I run the flower shop next door,” Valjean explains. “He came in one day to buy something for his mother’s birthday, and he didn’t stop coming back.”

“That’s why you were smiling when you said you were texting your florist,” Dumont exclaims, his face lighting up.

Javert frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Back in May. You said that you were texting your florist, and I would’ve dismissed it, but you were laughing. So it stuck in my mind.”

He growls. “What are you doing here, Dumont?”  
“I’m in charge of a restraining order case, and the woman involved works here,” Dumont replies. “And they have good coffee.”

“Hm.”

“Detective Dumont? I can speak with you now,” Fantine calls from the counter.

“Gotta go.” Dumont tips his hat. “Nice to meet you, sir. See you later, Inspector.”

As he walks away, Valjean leans across the table. “Why’d you tell him we’ve been dating for 3 years? It’s only been real since August.”

“It just slipped out,” Javert whispers. “The less my coworkers know about my personal life, the better.”

Valjean sighs. “Good God.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Because—“ he huffs. “Because they seem like good people, Javert. I’m part of your personal life now. We’re going to be interacting with a lot of your coworkers at the wedding, as a _couple_. We _live_ together. We need to sort this out.”

Javert stares pointedly at his computer screen. “I have work to do.”

“Fine. I’ll stop.” Valjean says. He grabs his book again. Both of them know, however, exactly what he omitted from his words: _this topic isn’t over_.

Javert’s keystrokes become far more forceful than necessary as he types. His mind buzzes, but not about his casework.

 

Later that night, they’re sitting at the table eating dinner. Valjean puts his fork down abruptly. “We need to sort this out.”

“Sort what out?” Javert asks, an evasiveness in his voice. Celia, the cat, has jumped onto the table. He swats at her lightly. “Shoo.”

“You know what I mean.”

He scowls. “What do you want to say about it?”

“I think,” Valjean begins carefully, “that we need to work this out. I _will_ be meeting your coworkers in a few months, thanks to Fantine and Simplice. And yet you still hate the idea of me interacting with them.”

“I don’t! I just—“ Javert scowls. “ _I like keeping things separate_. We’ve been over this before. The officers I work with know nearly nothing about me, and I work hard to keep it that way. I don’t think most of them know my first name, and—”

Valjean frowns. “ _I_ don’t know your first name.” 

Javert says nothing in reply, simply glaring at him.

“Javert, what is your first name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles, stabbing at his food with his fork. “I don’t like it.”

“Javert.”

He growls. “I don’t—it took me a long time to earn enough money to change my name legally. I was enlisting as apolice officer before I could, so I didn’t use it. The habit stuck. My first name doesn’t matter.”

Valjean reaches for his hand, but Javert snaps it back. He sighs. “Javert.”

“My first name is Dominik,” Javert’s eyes are fixed on the table.

“Thank you.”

“Never use it.”

“Okay,” Valjean says quietly. He sighs. “But we need to talk about this whole thing.”

“I don’t want to,” Javert snaps.

“Neither do I, but we’re civilized adults, and we’re supposed to be able to work this out.” He thinks back to his first sessions with his therapist. “Now… do you have any idea as to why you don’t want your coworkers to know stuff about you?”

Javert raises his eyebrows. “Do not do this to me.”

“Do what?”

“You are a _florist_. Do not act like you’re a therapist.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry? Okay, what are we going to do about this?”

“Nothing?”

“That is not an option,” Valjean replies, as measuredly as he can.

“Fine. I—I guess I’ll try, to not hide things.”

“Thank you.”

Javert looks down at his plate, glaring at his food. Valjean shakes his head and picks up his fork again.

 

“Good morning, Inspector.”

Javert looks up immediately. Dumont nods, removing his coat. “How was your—“

“Dumont, can I speak to you for a moment?” Javert says tightly. “Outside?”

“Sure.”

Once they’re outside, Javert makes sure the door is shut. Then he takes out a cigarette and lights it.

“Javert, are you going to talk to me or not?”

He swivels. “Yes. I—Don’t tell anyone about Jean, understand?”

Dumont frowns. “Your boyfriend? Why?”

“Because I said so,” Javert snaps. “I don’t like the idea of all of you talking about my… boyfriend, and my personal life.Don’t mention him to anyone else.”

“Okay. Can I go back inside now?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Javert taps his fingers against his thigh. “You’re working a case with a restraining order, yes? With Félix Tholomyès?” Dumont nods in response, and Javert’s lips flatten into a thin line.

“I know Fantine. I have no jurisdiction over that case, but… Dumont, promise me one thing. You are going to work on this case with everything you’ve got, and you’re going to make sure that Tholomyès gets exactly what he deserves. Do you understand?”

“I promise, sir.” There’s obviously a question in Dumont’s mind, but he doesn’t voice it.

Javert gestures to the door. “You can go inside.”

Dumont does. Javert, on the other hand, stares up at the sky and takes a drag of the cigarette.

He sighs. The wedding is going to be unbearable. 

• • •

Valjean is fixing a display of primroses when the shop door flies open. He sighs. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Jean, I gotta show you this!”

He startles. The primroses shift, falling to the side, and he curses.

“Fantine, give me a moment,” Valjean says, adjusting the flowers. “Okay. What do you want to show me?”

She grins her gap-toothed smile and brandishes a file folder. “I have a court date with Tholomyès. It’s January 22nd.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“He’s going to get his due,” Fantine mutters. She folds her arms over the folder. “Can I talk to you?”

“I, uh, sure.” Valjean glances at his watch. Zephine’s working the counter, and Fauchelevent will be back from delivery soon. He jumps down from the stepstool, dusting his hands off. “Do you want to go into the back room?”

“Sure.”

As they walk, it occurs to Valjean that he’s beginning to use the back room of the flower shop for a lot more than just tending to plants. He pushes the thought out of his mind.

Fantine sits on the counter again. She runs a hand over her hair, as if she’s forgotten that she cut most of it. From the expression on her face, she has. Valjean leans against the table in the center of the room.

Fantine bites her lip. “I… I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“Him.” She doesn’t have to clarify who she means. “I know that I’ve got a restraining order, but he’s broken it intentionally once already. What if he comes back? What if—what if he hurts me again or tries to?”

“Then…” Valjean pauses, having to search for an answer. “Then we’ll call the police again and makes sure he gets prosecuted for it. I know that our legal system sucks, that it’s shitty and broken. I know that better than anyone. But you know what?”

Fantine tugs at her short locks. “What?”

“We know Javert.”

“And how does that help me?” Fantine mumbles, but there’s the ghost of a smile on her lips. Valjean smiles softly in return.

“It helps us because if Javert believes in anything, he believes in justice. And in any world, Tholomyès deserves justice against him.”

“Yeah.”

Fantine’s eyes are on the floor, hands still tangled in her hair. She looks so young. She looks just like she did eight years ago, sitting in a hospital bed with her limbs so thin. Valjean’s heart aches.

Valjean reaches out, cupping the side of Fantine’s face with a hand. “He’s going to get his due, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He smiles a little. “Are you looking forward to the wedding?”

“Yes. I—Jean, what if he talks to Simplice and changes her mind about me? What if he convinces her to leave me?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“How do you—“

“Because Simplice isn’t a bitch.”

Fantine looks up. “What?”

“Simplice isn’t a bitch,” Valjean repeats. “Tholomyès is an utter, utter bitch. And the only possible way he could convince Simplice to leave you is if she was a bitch, and that’s simply not possible. There’s no way she’d leave you.”

“I…”

“Look. Simplice is _never_ going to listen to what he has to say, understand? She’s sensible. She’s not going to leave you. I know that won’t relieve your fears, that it won’t really help. But it’s the best I can offer.”

“Thank you.” Fantine manages a tiny smile. “Do you ever worry like that?”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever worry that Javert will leave you?”

Valjean barks a short laugh. “Of course. I’m a ball of anxiety, Fantine, I worry about everything.”

She only looks at him, thin brows knitted. He sighs.

“Yes. I worry about it sometimes. I’m an ex-con. And Javert’s a cop. He was _really_ upset when he realized. He…”

He remembers Javert’s apology. What he admitted. Valjean still hasn’t dropped the habit of checking Javert’s wrists for marks on occasion, although it’s easier to know that Javert hasn’t hurt himself now that they live together.

“It’s something that is Javert’s to tell, not mine,” Valjean says quietly. “But I worry, yes. You’re not alone.”

Fantine sighs. Then she leans forward, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. “That’s good to know.”

“Of course.”

Valjean feels Fantine’s shudder, and he puts a light hand on her back as she begins to cry. “It’s going to get better,” he says quietly. “I promise.”

Fantine straightens. There’s tears tracks down her face. “Do you think I’m making the right decision?”

“What? About the wedding?”

Fantine nods wordlessly, fingers worrying at the edge of her file folder. Valjean sighs, shifting.

“You’ve been with Simplice for six years,” he says kindly. “I am perhaps not the best person to ask about this, but I think you’re definitely making the right decision.”

She bites her lip. “The money is worrying me. It feels like we don’t quite have enough, like we’re going to run out. What if that’s how our marriage is going to be like?”

“It won’t. I... Fantine, I’m a 55-year-old man in the first romantic relationship of my life. Are you sure you want to consult _me_ about this?”

“I want to hear your opinion,” she replies, looking him in the eye. “You’re my best friend after Sim.”

Valjean almost chokes. “Really? _I’m_ your second best friend? Not Dahlia, or—or Zephine, or even Favourite?”

“Yeah, you are. Please answer.”

Fantine’s face is pained, her eyebrows furrowed once more. Valjean takes a deep breath.

“I think that you and Simplice are going to have a wonderful marriage,” he says softly. “I don’t know much about it, but it seems like your getting married won’t change much. You two are practically married already.”

“I…” Fantine twists her hands together. “Jean, I cut off all my hair because I saw Tholomyès once. What if something happens when we’re married, and I don’t recover?”

“You have a therapist now. You’re working through these issues, and if there’s any spouse who will be able to help you through things, it’s Simplice.”

“I’m just worried about everything. It’s just so complicated, and—”

Valjean places a hand on her shoulder. “Look. It’s going to be all right.”

“Thank you,” Fantine mumbles. She frowns. “You’re going to watch Cosette while we’re on the honeymoon, right?”

He chuckles. “Javert and Cosette in thte same apartment for two weeks. This will be fun. Hopefully Fauchelevent will visit often.”  
“Cosette is _fascinated_ by Javert,” she snickers. “What’s his opinion of her?”

“I believe she drives him insane.”

Fantine laughs halfheartedly. “Excellent.”

• • •

The days pass. Fantine, despite Valjean and Simplice’s reassurances, remains worried about the wedding and Tholomyès, although her stress has lessened. The snow doesn’t melt. Rather, it grows; more often than not, they wake to snow coating the street.

Cosette delights in this. Twice her school is cancelled for the day. She spends the time flitting back and forth between the cafe and flower shop, stealing both pastries and flowers. Fantine snaps at her occasionally. Valjean only asks her to stop, albeit wearily.

Javert, on the other hand, despises the snow.

“It’s too cold,” he complains one morning. He pulls a turtleneck over his undershirt. “I hate it.”

“You hate everything,” Valjean replies.

Javert glares at him. “The cold drains you of energy. It’s stupid.”

“Uh-huh.”

November ends cloaked in snow. As December begins, Javert spends more time at his precinct, increasing his efforts on the Thénardier case. His sleeping becomes erratic to the point where Valjean has to almost tie him to the bed at night.

“Take a break,” Valjean tells him gently.

Javert shakes his head. “I’ve nearly got him.”

 

“Where’s Javert?”

Valjean glances up from the game he’s playing with Cosette. Simplice leans over the counter expectantly.

He shrugs. “He’s back at his precinct, working on the Thena—on his case.” They’re careful not to mention the name of the Thénardier case around Cosette, due to her friendships with Éponine and Azelma.

Fantine groans from the kitchen. “He’s missed the last two Saturdays. How’s the case coming?”

“I have no idea,” Valjean replies. Cosette hands him the dice, which he rolls. “He won’t say anything about it. Says I shouldn’t worry about it.”

Valjean has a tradition of spending the evening with Cosette, Fantine and Simplice every Saturday night. Fauchelevent comes often, too, and ever since Javert moved in with Valjean, he’s attended dutifully. But he’s starting to miss.

“It’s starting to get unhealthy,” Fantine comments.

Valjean snorts. “Like I haven’t told him that. I’m trying to get him to take breaks, but he refuses. I’m starting to understand why Chabouillet forced him to take leave back in April.”

“He’s always been like that,” Simplice adds. “As long as I’ve known him. The other officers are absolutely bewildered by it.”

Cosette nudges Valjean’s hand. He nods and moves his game piece a few spaces.

“We should go get him. Pull him out of his work,” Fantine says, gesturing with her glass.

“He’d hate it.” Valjean hands the dice to Cosette. “We ought to do it.”

“Can I come?” Cosette asks, and Valjean ruffles her hair.

“Certainly.” He glances up at her mothers. “If we go, of course.”

“Of course we’re going,” Simplice replies.

Fantine looks at her with surprise. “You’re advocating this?”

“Why not?”

Valjean laughs. “Let’s go get him, then.”

Twenty minutes later, the four of them are in Simplice’s car, Fantine driving. Valjean’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

He picks it up. “Yeah, love?”

“I’ve found something.”

“What do you mean?” Valjean asks.

He can hear the smile in Javert’s voice. “I’ve found instances of a man named Jondrette buying things all around the docks. Jondrette’s one of Thénardier’s aliases. Hotel rooms, food, clothes. All in the past three weeks.”

“Awesome.”

“This is going to help us so much,” Javert murmurs. “I think I’m going to come home for tonight, now.”

“No!” Valjean says emphatically, and cringes immediately.

“What?” Javert asks.  
“I, I mean that you shouldn’t come home right now.” Valjean scrambles for an excuse. “We’re, uh…”

Cosette grabs his arm. “Tell him.”

“Is that Cosette?”

“Give me a moment,” Valjean says. He covers the phone with a hand. “What should I do?” he asks, leaning forward. Simplice glances at him from the passenger seat.

“Tell him we’re working on a surprise for him,” she says, “and it isn’t finished yet, so he has to stay there.”

Valjean considers it. “It’s true, in a way.” He speaks into the phone again. “We’re working on a surprise for you. You should stay.”

“‘We’?”

“Cosette and I.”

“I hate surprises.”

Valjean chuckles. “I know. Just stay there for about ten more minutes, okay?”

“Valjean, I—“

He hangs up, putting the phone in his pocket again. Cosette giggles. She tangles her hands in her brown hair, the way Fantine used to when her hair was long, and Valjean feels a strange sense of melancholy. For a moment, Cosette looks almost identical to her mother.

“Javert’s going to be _pissed_ ,” she proclaims.

“Where’d you learn that word?” Simplice asks mildly.

“Mama. And Javert.”

They arrive at the station four minutes later. Fantine settles the car into a parking space, but doesn’t turn it off.

She looks at the others. “Sim, Jean, do you want to get him? I’ll stay here with Cosette.”

“I want to get him too!” Cosette protests.

Simplice shakes her head. “I don’t want you in a police precinct. Mr. Jean, you want to come with me? I know the station. The officers there are oddly reckless.”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Valjean says as they get out of the car, and then they’re walking into the precinct.

Valjean’s heart stutters in his chest, and he’s forced to take a deep breath.

The precinct is oddly familiar to the one he was first taken to. There aren’t many officers walking round at least, thanks to the hour. He shuts his eyes for a moment. The uniforms are so _familiar_.

Simplice takes his arm gently. “I know where Javert’s desk is, thanks to his own recklessness. Follow me.” She leads him through a hallway, into an elevator. When they step out, it’s into a room with multiple desks in it. Another holding cell. Valjean takes a deep breath again.

Javert’s sitting at one of the desks, feet up, leafing through papers. His back is to them. Half of his hair is tied in a messy bun, the rest fallen out. Valjean feels a surge of affection for him.

Simplice leans over to Valjean. “Let’s sneak up on him,” she whispers. He nods.

They walk over to Javert as quietly as possible. An officer with deep brown skin glances up from his desk, but Simplice presses a finger to her lips. He nods.

Valjean places a hand on Javert’s shoulder. “Hey, love.”

Javert startles violently. He looks up at Valjean, a scowl spreading across his face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks. He glances over at the officer. “Lavigne, why didn’t you—“

Lavigne shrugs. “Simplice said to keep quiet.”

“Of course she did.”

“We came to take you home, Javert,” Valjean says gently. He hooks his hands under Javert’s arms, lifting him out of the seat. “Get you to take a break.”

“I was going to anyway,” Javert grumbles, grabbing papers and his coat. He stuffs the papers into a folder.

“You better not be taking those home,” Simplice warns, and Javert sighs. He tosses them onto his desk instead.

“If Gisquet comes in before you tomorrow,” Lavigne calls, “he’ll be annoyed that your desk is so messy.”

“Do I look like I care?” Javert replies. The other three snicker, and Valjean and Simplice usher him out of the room and into the elevator.

Valjean takes his hand. “Thanks for deciding to come home tonight. I mean, we came and got you. But thanks for calling me.”

“Thanks for scaring the shit out of me by accosting me at my desk.”

“And I’d thank the two of you to stop flirting next to me,” Simplice interrupts. “You can make eyes at each other all you want to once you get home.”

“We’re not flirting,” Valjean protests.

Simplice shakes her head. “Sure you aren’t.”

When they get to the car, Simplice slides into the passenger seat without hesitation. Javert simply stares at the inside of the backseat until Valjean asks what’s wrong.

“We’re not gonna be able to fit in there,” he explains. “You know, I drove here this morning. I’ve got to drive my car home again. You all can go.”

Valjean touches his shoulder lightly. “You sure?”

“I have to get my car home again. I’ll see the four of you soon.”

Javert walks away from the car, pulling his keys from his pocket. Valjean sighs.

“God.” Fantine hits the wheel with a hand. “Can’t he ever let himself have fun? It’s like he’s allergic.”

“Yeah, it is,” Valjean murmurs, pulling the door closed beside him.

Cosette touches his arm. “When we get home, we should make Javert play monopoly with us.”

“Seems like a sound idea.”

Simplice asks Cosette something about school. As she answers, Valjean grabs his phone and sends a text.

_make sure you get home to play monopoly with us_

It’s a few minutes before Javert texts back. _Okay_. _Don’t text me when you know I’m driving._

_why’d you text back then_

_I pulled over._

Valjean smiles and puts his phone away once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finding a legitimate reason for Javert not wanting to use his first name was pretty hard tbh... if he's cis, you can always say that he just hates it, but being trans means you get to pick out a new name that you DO like.


	7. When We Come Face To Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert finds Thénardier, but Thénardier has been waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: Javert gets injured pretty badly.

Javert’s phone buzzes at 6:37 in the morning. He groans, reaching for it, and takes the call. “It’s Javert.”

“We think we might’ve found Thénardier,” Chabouillet says on the other end.

Javert sits up straight. “What?” His voice is as loud as he dares.

“Some sailors say they spotted him in the warehouses down by the docks. The problem is, they aren’t totally sober, and the surveillance footage is marginal at best. You’ve spent the most time on this case. We need your eye.”

Javert yawns. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up, then gets out of bed and gets dressed. When he’s buttoning up his shirt, Valjean rolls over, hugging his pillow.

“Where you going?” he mumbles.

Javert kisses his forehead. “Out. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

He only needs to glance at the security footage to verify it. Javert has watched footage of the same shitty quality of Thénardier since June.

“It’s him. Let’s go.”

 

“Hey, Inspector.”

Javert freezes at the sound of Thénardier’s voice. He grips his gun a little tighter.

Thénardier isn’t supposed to be in this empty warehouse. Not when Javert is alone, not when he has no idea how far away the rest of the officers are or how heavily armed Thénardier is. The man is supposed to be his arrest, yes, but not like this.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Javert doesn’t answer on the slim chance that Thénardier doesn’t know where he is. Answering would almost certainly give away his location.

“Come on, now.”

Thénardier strolls out of the shadows directly in front of Javert. He’s grinning, a toothpick in his mouth. “I heard you’re the one who’s been making trouble for me.”

Javert growls. “It’s my job. Eugéne Thénardier, you are under arrest.” He takes the risk of quickly radioing Lavigne. “Lavigne, I found him. Warehouse H. Hurry.”

“Aw, ‘spector.” Thénardier shrugs. “You couldn’t let one man slip away? Just one? You’ve already got my gang, my wife.”

“No,” Javert replies curtly.

“What about your boyfriend?”

Javert freezes for a moment, then snarls, “What boyfriend?”

“Jean Valjean.” He strolls forward leisurely. “The florist, the ex-con. I know a lot about you, Inspector. That you’re a homo—not that I judge—“

“Seems like you just did,” Javert mutters. He raises his gun, heart hammering. “Hands up, Thénardier.”

Thénardier lifts them. “Okay. I know that you live with Valjean, that you have a cat, that you hated your father.”

“Why do I care?” Javert replies. _Lavigne, Allard, someone, hurry up._

Thénardier’s eyes glitter. “Because I hate you.”

Suddenly he lunges forward, and a knife the wasn’t there before buries itself in Javert’s thigh. He roars, stumbling backwards. He aims the gun as best he he can and tries to ignore the pain.

“You’re the reason I’m gonna go to prison,” Thénardier snarls. “You’re the cop who wouldn’t rest until you found me, and I’m going to kill you because of it. When I get out, I’m going to make life a living hell for everyone you loved. ”

He lunges forward again, and Javert narrowly sidesteps the blade. He lets out a grunt at the spike of pain. “You’re never getting out. Not for attempted murder.”

“You’re the reason my kids are in foster care,” Thénardier spits.

“You fucking _sold_ your two younger sons,” Javert gasps, scrambling backwards. “We still haven’t- _ow_ -found them.”

The knife slices through his vest and into the skin over his lefthand ribs; Javert gasps again. He hurriedly turns on the radio.

“Lavigne, Dumont, Allard, Chabouillet, _anyone_ , I have been stabbed and am in Warehouse H.” He ducks. “ _Fuck_! Hurry up. I have—I have Thénardier.”

Thénardier snickers. “You have a gun, Inspector. Fucking use it.”

He wants to, _God_ Javert wants to, but he’s barely standing upright and he doubts he’ll be able to pull the trigger. He aims it. He can’t make himself turn the safety off.

“You haven’t got the guts,” Thénardier says with relish.

“Turn around, Thénardier. Put the knife down.”

Chabouillet. In the warehouse doorway.

Javert wants to sob with relief.

But Thénardier doesn’t turn around. “It’s a switchblade, idiot.”

And then he’s digging the switchblade into Javert’s bulletproof vest, pinning him to the wall with his other hand, and the knife is inside Javert. He is too shocked to scream. But it hurts like hell and he begins to cry unwillingly.

Thénardier smiles and rips the switchblade out.

Javert’s gun clatters to the floor as he presses his hands to his abdomen, trying to keep pressure on the wound. Warm scarlet blood leaks onto his fingers, turning slippery. He sinks to his knees.

Pain shoots up from his thigh, and this does make him scream.

“Javert!” Chabouillet yells, rushing forward. Thénardier drops the switchblade and walks towards the doorway. “I’m all yours, officers.”

Javert lets out a pained noise. The world begins to swim before him.

Someone grabs him. They aren’t exceptionally strong, but strong enough. Another pair of hands press on his abdomen with him. Javert doesn’t move his own.

“Keep your eyes open, Javert, and stay awake. For the love of God stay awake.”

“Chabouillet?” Javert asks, but doesn’t listen for the response.

There are flashing red lights and someone is putting an oxygen mask on him, someone is wrapping _something_ around his wounds and he _knows_ that face, those cornrows—

“Simplice?” he whispers.

“Save your strength, Javert.”

He reaches for her, clutching at her sleeve. Javert feels fresh tears run down his face. “I want to see Jean again before I die.”

“You’re not going to—“

The world is the inside of the ambulance; the world is the blood streaming from his chest; the world is the pain in him. And then the world is nothing at all.

 

Chabouillet paces nervously in the waiting room.

“He has to have _someone_ ,” Lavigne is saying. “Someone other than us that we need to tell.”

“He has Jean Valjean,” Dumont replies, voice tired.

Chabouillet turns around. “What’d you say?”

“Jean Valjean, sir.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, remembering the call from back in November. Valjean called with Javert’s phone, yes, but the two are dating, and Javert didn’t have his phone on him when he came in. Chabouillet takes a chance and calls the number.

It rings once. “Hello?”

“Jean Valjean?” Chabouillet asks.

“Yes?”

“This is Police Director Chabouillet. We’re at Rivera Medical and need you urgently. Inspector Javert has just been stabbed.”

“Oh my God. Oh my—I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Then Valjean hangs up.

Chabouillet turns his phone off with a heavy sigh and resumes pacing.

“Who’s Jean Valjean?” Lavigne asks.

Dumont answers. “Someone very important to Javert.”

 

“I need to see Inspector Javert.” Valjean grips the edge of the desk. “Ma’am, he’s my boyfriend. I need to see him.”

“Are you married?” The secretary doesn’t look up.

“No, I just said that—”

“Do you have legal jurisdiction?”

“I’m a florist.”

“Then I cannot help you, sir.” She clicks something on her screen.

Valjean feels panic bubble up in his chest. “He’s dying, ma’am. I need to see him. Please.”

“Mr. Valjean!”

He turns sharply to see a man in police uniform. The goatee is familiar. “Detective Dumont?” he asks, remembering the day in the cafe.

Dumont nods. “You can come with me.”

Valjean’s chest heaves. “Thank you.”

 

It takes hours.

The four officers that stay are Chabouillet, Dumont, and a woman called Allard and a man called Lavigne. Valjean vaguely remembers Javert mentioning them. Other officers flit in and out, asking after Javert. Waiting.

Valjean can do nothing but worry.

Eventually he takes out his rosary and begins to pray. How ironic, that today is Tuesday. Day of the Sorrowful Mysteries. He loses track of how many times he says the prayers.

_God, save him._

He grows weary. And yet, he cannot sleep.

 

Fantine holds Cosette close as they watch the news together. From Simplice, she knows exactly what will be on tonight, but she’s not going to turn it off.

Cosette needs to see this.

“Earlier today, crime boss Eugéne Thénardier was apprehended and arrested at the docks,” the anchor says. “We go to Karen, live in the field.”

“Is Eugéne Thénardier ‘Ponine’s dad?” Cosette asks.

Fantine smooths her daughter’s hair. “Yes.”

“Thank you, Tom,” the reporter says. “As you can see, I’m standing outside of Rivera Medical. Minutes before he was arrested, Thénardier attacked the agent who first apprehended him, Inspector Dominik Javert.”

Cosette lets out a little gasp.

“The inspector suffered multiple wounds. Thénardier was then arrested by a Sergeant Allard, and is currently being held in custody. We go to testimonials of officers and people involved in the scene.”

A woman with a messy brown bun appears on the screen, her name listed as Sergeant Allard.

“Can you tell us about the arrest you made today?”

Allard shrugs. “It was nothing. I made it because I caught Thénardier on his way out of the warehouse—I didn’t really even work on the case. Javert’s the one that was supposed to get it. He worked himself to death on the case.”

_Police Director Chabouillet_

“We wouldn’t have been able to arrest Thénardier without Javert. He absolutely threw himself into the case. Thénardier himself said Javert was the reason he was going to prison.” Chabouillet clears his throat. “I’m glad we made the arrest, but if Javert doesn’t… doesn’t survive, I’ll have lost a friend and one of my best officers. I don’t know if Thénardier’s worth that.”

_Jean Valjean_

Fantine’s eyes widen. Valjean is a mess—his eyes are red, his hair’s everywhere, his hands are trembling.

“I…” He fidgets with his rosary. “I just want Javert to live. He’s been through so much, and—and I just want him to make it.” He looks away. “I can’t lose him.”

“Thank you, sir,” the reporter says kindly. She turns to the camera again. “As you can see, it is a very emotional environment here at Rivera Medical, where Inspector Javert remains in critical condition. It is uncertain as to whether or not he will survive. Tom?”

Fantine turns the television off.

“Is Javert gonna be okay?” Cosette asks softly. Fantine holds her a little closer.

“I hope to God so.”

• • •

Seventeen hours pass before Javert is released from the operating room. The officers all fall asleep at one time or another. Valjean doesn’t let himself, despite the fatigue that begins to eat away at him.

He has to know if Javert will live.

And then, a woman in scrubs comes out. She tells them that the surgery part is over, that Javert has been moved to a private room and they can see him.

“Is he going to live?” Allard asks, and Valjean silently thanks her.

The doctor hesitates. “I… We think so, but it’s up to his body to pull through and wake up.”

Valjean knows what the means. It means that the doctors have done all they can do, and it’s up to fate now.

 

Javert’s face is pallid, his hair undone, blood still smeared across his skin. Valjean crushes his hands around the rosary. Javert’s chest rises and falls, too slowly, and the heart monitor barely peaks. Valjean sinks into the chair directly beside the bed.

“Sir.” Chabouillet places a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to sleep?”

“I might,” Valjean whispers. “I don’t know. You guys don’t have to stay.”

He leans forward, not daring to reach out. He keeps his eyes on Javert’s face.

The time passes.

Minutes grow into hours, hours grow into a day. At some point, when it’s still light outside, Valjean drifts into sleep. It’s dark when he wakes up.

Fantine visits three times, but she has to take care of Cosette and no one wants the nine-year-old to see Javert in this state. Simplice stops by often. The police agents go home, but all return at various time. Checking. Waiting.

Valjean prays and waits. If his hair wasn’t already white, it would be by now, and he only falls asleep when his body forces him to. Simplice brings him food from the cafeteria. Valjean doesn’t leave.

_Someone has to be here when Javert wakes._

But he doesn’t, not yet. The doctors grow more worried. Time passes, but Javert’s state does change for better or for worse. Valjean finds himself crying more than once, even in front of the officers.

It’s nearing dusk of the second day when Valjean breaks his rosary.

He doesn’t _break_ it, per se. He just accidentally crushes some of the beads, splintering them in his grip. He takes a deep breath. “Holy Mother, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Allard asks. She and Chabouillet and have crowded into the room; Lavigne and Dumont are getting food. Valjean holds up the rosary in response. Allard nods, and they settle into silence again. Valjean twists the rosary string between his fingers.

“Valjean?”

Javert’s voice is little more than a croak, barely there. His eyes are heavy lidded.

But he’s awake.

Good God, he’s awake. Valjean feels tears roll down his face; he falls to his knees, cupping Javert’s face. He presses their mouths together. He doesn’t care that the other officers can see him. Javert is alive. He’s made it. He’s _alive_.

“You bastard,” Valjean whispers, pulling back. “You’re not allowed to do that ever again, you understand?”

Javert chuckles weakly. “Okay.”

“ _I’ll be back before you know I’m gone_ ,” he quotes. He leans forward. “And then I don’t hear from you until I get a call from Chabouillet at 3 in the afternoon, saying you’ve been _stabbed_ , and—“

“Wai-wai-wait. Chabouillet called you? Are you here, sir?” Javert asks, his words slurring together. Valjean leans back, and Chabouillet gives a little wave.

Javert closes his eyes. “How long’s it been?”

“Three days,” Valjean replies.

“Then I am a bastard,” Javert mumbles. “Sorry.” Then an odd expression slides across his face, and he glances to Chabouillet. “Did we catch him?”

Allard nods. “He’s in custody.”

“Good.” Javert reaches out, arm trembling, and takes Valjean’s hand in his.

Chabouillet ducks his head. “We’ll give you a moment. C’mon, Allard.”

They close the door behind them. Valjean sighs, resting his head on the edge of the bed.

Javert grunts, reaching with his other arm, and edges Valjean’s chin onto his chest. Valjean chuckles. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Javert…” he reaches out, brushing hair out of Javert’s eyes. “I can’t express how glad I am that you’re here. That you’re alive. It’s illegal for you to get hurt now. You have to observe that.”

The man chuckles. “I will. I’m sorry, Valjean.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You know, I was blacking out before they even got me to the hospital. I remember, I told Simplice—“ Javert grunts “—I told her that I wanted to see you before I died.”

“Are you all right?” Valjean asks gently.

He shrugs. “Pain’s coming back. It’s not great.”

“Should I get off your chest?”

Javert waves a hand listlessly. “It doesn’t—“ he grimaces. “Yeah. Off, off off.”

 

The next two days are the hardest. Javert is awake, he’s alive, but he isn’t _there_. Not truly.

He fades in and out of consciousness. When he is awake, he seems to barely so. His words slur, his hands tremble.

The doctors assure Valjean, as well as the police officers, that Javert’s behavior is only due to the heavy medication that he’s on. That it will wear off.

“He was stabbed in the abdomen and thigh, not the head,” Chabouillet tells Valjean reassuringly. “He’s awake. He’ll recover.”

Valjean only nods and clutches his rosary tighter.

And slowly, Javert does. He grows stronger, becomes more coherent. Valjean barely leaves his side despite it.

On the third day after Javert wakes, the dose of the medication begins to lessen. He starts talking and doesn’t stop.

“I’m so sorry, Jean. I didn’t know—I didn’t see a gun on his.” Javert takes a deep breath. “I was stupid. I thought since it was the middle of the day, he wouldn’t try to kill me. _God_ , I was stupid.”

Valjean shakes his head. “You didn’t stab yourself three times. And you aren’t dead.”

“Like that’s an excuse.”

“You’re here,” he reminds him. Javert only chuckles, then groans.

As the days pass, the stress in the room lessens. Fantine manages to persuade Valjean to come home and clean himself up, though it takes some time. Javert helps.

“You need to shave,” he says at one point, frowning with disgust. “You look like a… I don’t know, a fugitive.”

Valjean runs a hand over his haw, stubble prickling against his fingers. “Really?”

“And you smell. Go home and take a shower.”

Valjean shakes his head resignedly. Fantine appears about twenty minutes later to scold him and take him home.

Cosette visits four days after Javert wakes up. She’s shyer than Valjean has ever seen her, sitting hesitantly by the bed.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Cosette says quietly. She twists her hair around her fingers. “It was ‘Ponine and ‘Zelma’s dad. They said they’re sorry about it too.”

Javert chuckles. “They don’t have to be sorry about it. It’s their piece of shit father that did it.”

“Javert!” Fantine scolds, and he grins lazily. Cosette giggles. Then her face grows solemn once more, and she holds out a thin piece of paper.

“I made you a get-well card.”

“…Thank you.” Javert turns it over in his hands. “It’s very nice.”  
Cosette grins.

 

“Javert, do you think you’re ready to talk about Thénardier’s attack?” Chabouillet asks when he stops by on the fifth day, a coffee in his hand. “We need it for the police report.”  
Javert shifts. “I think.”

Chabouillet nods. “I’ll have Allard come up to write the report.” He turns to the door to leave.

“Wait,” Javert calls, and Chabouillet turns around.

“I…” he pauses. “How long have I been here? I’d ask Jean, but…” he gestures vaguely. “He’s taking a break.”

Valjean has gone home again to shower and eat. Chabouillet nods. “You’ve been here for about eight days. Conscious for five.”

He leans his head back. “I know. Has anyone called my mother?”

“Your… mother?”

“Yeah,” Javert mumbles. “I guess nobody did. I—Do you know where my phone is?”

“It wasn’t on you.”

Javert sighs. “I must’ve left it at home. Will someone call her, please? I want her to know I’m safe.”

“Javert, I…” Chabouillet pauses. “I’m sorry. You never spoke about her. If I’d known, I’d have—“

“It’s not your fault. I don’t talk about her at all, but I…I call her every week. I was supposed to the day it happened.” He groans. “She must be worried sick.”

“I’ll call her.”

He takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

• • •

Javert’s mother lives four hours away. Chabouillet reports that when he called and told her, she broke down and promised to come as soon as she could.

Javert sighs in response. “It’ll be a while, then. She works a lot.”

“Is that where you learned?” Valjean asks, and he shakes his head.

“I work because I want to. She works out of necessity.”

“Ah.”

His mother makes it on the seventh.

Valjean meets her first. She’s sitting in the main hospital room, fidgeting with a crochet hook and yarn, but hasn’t made anything yet. Her face is remarkably similar to Javert’s.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

She looks up. “Yes?”

“Are you—“ Valjean pauses. “Are you Javert’s mother?”

“I am.”

“Come with me.”

She’s shorter than Valjean thought, far shorter than Javert. Valjean shows her down the hallway, up the elevator, down a hallway again. And then they’re in Javert’s room.

“Dominik,” his mother breathes at the sight of him. She hurries to one of the chairs.

Javert laughs. “I asked you to stop calling me that.”

“I know, I know.” She reaches out and touches the side of his face. “You’re just Javert now.”

Valjean takes a step towards the door. He feels out of place; this is a time for Javert and his mother.

But Javert notices. He gestures. “Jean.”

“What?” Valjean asks evasively.

“You know what. Stay.”

He sighs and sits in his usual chair reluctantly. Javert’s mother looks over at him kindly. “You know, you haven’t introduced yourself to me yet.”

Valjean nods awkwardly. “I’m, uh, Jean Valjean. I’m his—“

“Boyfriend,” Javert finishes. “She knows.”

His mother nods. “You know, he loves you very much—“

“Mom!”

“—talks about you all the time.” Her eyes twinkle. “Says you make him take care of himself, which with him…” she looks at Javert fondly. “It’s not an easy task.”

“You got that right,” Valjean murmurs.

“I’m still here,” Javert complains. “I can still hear you two.”

His mother laughs, but her joy vanishes quickly. “How long has he been here? The director called me, but he just gave me the bare bones. I don’t even what happened to put you in here.”

“I got stabbed three times,” Javert says quietly.

His mother’s face drops. “What?”

“I was, um, tracking a criminal.” He fiddles with his sheets. “We found him in a warehouse—well I found him in a warehouse, and I didn’t realize he was carrying a knife. I was stupid, andI got that knife in my thigh once and in my gut twice in return.”

“Dom—Javert—“

He grimaces. “I’e been in here for ten days, ever since the 4th. I thought they called you earlier, but apparently they didn’t.”

She shakes her head. “You weren’t stupid. Well, maybe you were a little, but at least you’re alive. At least you’re here, and—“ her voice breaks. “At least I get to see my son again.” She places a hand on his shoulder.

Javert smiles; softly, somehow.

 

He’s released from the hospital on the 16th of December. His mother has to return home after a few hours, but promises to visit soon.

The doctors at the hospital let Javert home on a few conditions, all of which Valjean records dutifully. Javert must rest constantly, take pain medication ever so often, stay well hydrated and fed.

“He _must_ rest,” the doctor says emphatically. She glances at Javert. “Inspector, I don’t think you truly understand. You have to walk as little as possible, stay in bed. If you listen to instructions, you’ll recover with a limp at worst. If you don’t listen… life will be very hard.”

“I’ll make sure he rests,” Valjean says quietly.

“Thank you.” She clears her throat. ”Mr. Valjean, I’m aware that you and Mr—Inspector Javert have a romantic relationship. There have been previous, um, patients who have continued certain activities after getting hurt in ways similar to Javert’s…” the doctor trails off and looks at the floor for a moment. “I have to tell you that you two can’t, well, have sex until he recovers.”

Valjean turns red. “That won’t be a problem. At all.”

“Good.” The doctor looks relieved. “There is one more condition in order for you to return home, Inspector.”

He ends up going home with a cane.

“I hate this,” Javert grumbles, struggling to climb the stairs to the apartment. The pain in his leg is growing. “I feel like an old man.”

Valjean waits behind him. “Don’t. You’re only 47.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Javert makes it up the stairs, into the apartment and the living room. Then he collapses on the couch, panting for breath.

He growls, his knuckles whitening around his cane. “I feel helpless. This is so _shitty_.”

“You’re going to get better,” Valjean says quietly. He sits cross-legged beside the couch. “You survived. Thénardier’s been arrested, and you’re going to live. That’s all we can ask for.”

“He was supposed to be my collar,” Javert hisses. “I was supposed to arrest Thénardier. I’ve been chasing him for half the year, and instead of the arrest, I got a knife in me three times.”

“You’re going to get better.”

“I don’t know that.”

“If you rest, and do not strain yourself, the doctors said that your body will be as good as it was before,” Valjean replies, voice kind but forceful. “You’ll recover with a limp at worst. If you rest.”

Javert snarls. “I don’t want to rest. I want to work. I want to throw Thénardier in jail for the rest of his life.”

“He’s already going to do that, considering he tried to murder a cop.” Valjean reaches up, pulling the hair tie off Javert’s ponytail, and runs his hand through his hair. Javert sighs.

“I’m going to die of boredom over the next two months,” he grumbles.

“I can loan you some books,” Valjean offers, and Javert scowls.

“I can’t fucking read. I have trouble comprehending long texts. I can’t read, TV programs don’t interest me—fuck, Thénardier’s condemned me to a slow death.”

Valjean chuckles. “You’re not going to die from boredom.”

“I might as well.” He shifts, and a pain shoots up his side. “God!”

“I’d give you pain meds, but you can’t take any for the next two hours.”

“I hate Thénardier,” Javert mumbles, “so _fucking_ much.”

“We’ve worked that out already, okay?”

“Mm.”

Valjean sighs and presses a kiss to his lips. “You have no idea how glad I am you’re alive, that you’re only lying on our couch instead of in the ground. You’re going to get better. We’re going to make it through this.”

“I wish this had never happened.” He scowls. “Maybe it’d be better if Thénardier had finished the job and left my body on the—“

Valjean grabs his shoulders. “Hey!Don’t you dare talk like that. Don’t you dare say that you’d be better off dead, because you _know_ it’s not true.”

Javert only stares at him coolly.

“Javert,” Valjean hisses, “you’re going to get better, okay? You’re not going to—you don’t deserve to die. You know that.” His voice is thick, as though he’s about to start crying. “I’m not going to lose you.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

A tear runs down Valjean’s face. “I’m not going to lose you.”

“Okay,” Javert repeats, reaching out. He grabs Valjean’s hands. “I promise, Jean. You won’t lose me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I researched it and apparently not all bullet-proof vests are stab-proof? Some are, but it varies. Javert is decidedly not wearing a stab-proof vest.


	8. A New Year's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert deals with the aftermath of his injuries as the the holiday season rolls around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all so kind with your comments; I appreciate them very much.   
> It might be a little while until the next update, as my classes filling a lot of my time, but I definitely aim to finish this fic. Expect maybe a few days' delay.

“Should I grow a beard?”

“You absolutely should _not_ grow a beard,” Javert replies, not looking up from his newspaper. It’s his first full day home from the hospital, and he’s lying on the couch. “I told you in the hospital. It makes you look like a fugitive.”

“Any other reason?”

Javert forces himself up on his elbows, grimacing, and looks over his shoulder. “You look far older than—oh, my God.”

“What?” Valjean asks, turning round.

“Are those tattoos?”

He colors. “Yes?”

“Come over here, please.” Javert gestures. “I want to see them.”

Valjean walks over and kneels beside the couch, back to Javert. Elegant tattoos of roses twist over his skin.

Javert touches them hesitantly. Valjean has just taken a shower, and his skin is still damp. It is cool against Javert’s fingers.

“Do you like them?” Valjean asks, his voice tentative.

“I… yes. I like them very much.” The tattoo really is beautiful, and it suits him so well. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Do you have a thing for tattoos, Javert?” Valjean teases.

He ignores him. “When did you get them done?”

“Late thirties, at a shop downtown. I’d gotten out of… well, you know, a while back. And I was still having trouble finding a job, making any money. When I did, I decided I was going to save up for something special. Sort of to mark a new chapter in my life. I ended up choosing this.”

Javert doesn’t respond, just continues running his fingers over the roses. They really are expertly drawn, and he wonders just how much it cost.

“You know how they aren’t colored in?” Valjean says. “When Cosette was two, the summer was really, really hot, and I’d go shirtless pretty often. She liked them. Sometimes, I’d sit with my shirt off, and she’d just color the roses in.” He laughs. “I didn’t often see what she did, but one time, she colored them bright green. It was adorable.”

“You’re a good father,” Javert murmurs.

“I’m not her father, Javert.”

He suppresses a laugh. “You are in everything but name. What Tholomyès was supposed to be, you’ve been for Cosette. And you’re doing far better than anyone else ever could.”

“Thank you,” Valjean says softly.

Javert shrugs, even though he knows Valjean can’t see it. He wipes a drop of water off his back with a thumb. “Wish I could’ve seen it in bright green. Probably lessened the elegance a bit.”

Valjean laughs. “It did. But it was adorable of Cosette all the same.” He glances at his watch. “I think I ought to go down to the shop. My shift is starting soon.”

“Okay.” Javert strokes the roses on his right shoulder blade a final time, and then drops his arm. “You can go.”

“Would you ever get one?” Valjean asks, turning.

He snorts. “Me, getting a tattoo? Ridiculous.”

“I think you should get one right… here.” Valjean leans over and kisses his collarbone. “A star, maybe.”

Javert huffs, a blush creeping onto his face. “Shut up.”

“Would you prefer it to be further down?” Valjean asks mischievously. He pulls the neckline of Javert’s shirt down and presses his lips to the skin there. “Maybe here—” _kiss_ “or here—” _kiss_ “or—”

“Okay, okay,” Javert mumbles. “Jean, _Jean_. I just got back from the hospital.”  
Valjean rocks back on his heels, grinning. “I’ve got to get to the shop anyway.” He fixes an eye on Javert. “You’ll be all right?”

Javert’s mouth twists. “I’ll manage.”

 

It amazes Valjean how he and Javert can manage to coexist. Living together, breathing together—but neither of them feels the need to constantly talk or interact. They’re simply content to be in each other’s presence.

 _Coexisting_. Which is exactly what they’re doing right now as they sit in the living room— Valjean is managing La Petit Fleurs’ finances on his laptop; Javert is reading.

Valjean has left his flannel shirt unbuttoned. He isn’t exactly baring his tattoos, but they aren’t totally hidden, either. Every so often, he notices Javert looking at him, gaze roaming over the roses.

His reaction to the tattoos was far better than expected. _He actually likes them._ And Javert has just been through hell. Why shouldn’t Valjean let him see the tattoos, if he likes them?

“What are you reading?” Valjean asks idly, finishing up the monthly payments.

“A biography of a New York detective from the early 1900s,” Javert replies. “Allard lent it to me.”

“Sounds interesting.”

He means it, but Javert only shrugs in response. “I have nothing else to do.”

Valjean shakes his head. A thought occurs to him. “Do you want anything in particular for Christmas? It’s only a week away.”

“God, no.”

“You sure?” he asks, frowning. “I’m getting stuff for Cosette, Simplice, Fantine. It only makes sense to—“

“I’m sure.” Javert turns a page more forcefully than necessary. “We never really had enough for presents. I’m used to it.”

Valjean sighs and turns back to the laptop. What little of a smile Javert had has now been replaced completely, a frown twisted over his features.

Time passes slowly. Then, suddenly, Javert hurls the book to the end of the couch, growling.

Valjean looks up sharply. “What?”

“I can’t—“ Javert breaks off and snarls. “I’ve been reading the same goddamn page for ten minutes and can’t process it. It’s so _fucking_ hard to understand. I hate it.” He grabs the cane by the side of the couch. “I’m getting coffee.”

“You’re not supposed to—“

“Do I look like I care, Valjean?” Javert glares down at the cane. “I hate this thing. It looks like something from a nursing home.”

“Hm,” Valjean murmurs. He makes a note on his phone.

He stands, following Javert. “Go sit down. You’re not supposed to be straining yourself any more than necessary, or you could cause permanent damage.”

“This is necessary,” Javert growls. His hand shakes as he tries to pour water into the coffee pot.

“No it isn’t. Sit.” Valjean places a gentle hand on his shoulder, forcing him into a chair. Javert glares up at him.He smiles back, softly. “Black, I assume.”

“What else?”

“Always good to check.” He busies himself with the coffee. He isn’t particularly good at it, having always drunk tea, but at least black coffee is simple. Once the pot is on the stove, Valjean reaches for the tea and starts making a pot for himself.

“Will you be going to church on Christmas?”

He pauses and looks over his shoulder. Javert is watching him from his seat, one hand on the cane. He raises his eyebrows.

“I know you’re Catholic,” Javert adds. “You’re always carrying the rosary. Are you going?”

“I… no.”

“Oh?”

“Oh?”

Valjean looks at his feet. “I don’t… I don’t have a great relationship with the church. I mean, I grew up in a very conservative parish in the south, and it was really homophobic. I realized I was gay when I was thirteen, and from there…” he shrugs. “I had to sit there and listen to the priest tell me how I was going to hell. I pray, talk to Bishop Myriel. I don’t really do much more.”

“That makes sense,” Javert says quietly, almost to himself. He juts his chin towards the teapot. “Are you going to put that on the stove or not?”

“Oh.” Valjean turns round again and busies himself with the tea and coffee. His face is has gone hot, the way it does when he thinks about his time in prison, and his eyes are stinging. He can still remember his church-going days clearly. It’s so _easy_ to, to remember just how terrible it felt.

When he’s finished, he leans against the counter with his eyes on the floor. He can feel Javert’s eyes drilling into him, burning with questions. Valjean doesn’t have the energy to answer them. Finally, the drinks are done. He pours tea for himself and hands a mug of coffee to Javert.

Valjean sits down, then drops his head to the table. He hears Javert snort. A moment later, a cool hand rests on his head, long fingers running through his hair. He sighs.

“You can’t break down,” Javert murmurs. “I’ve been stabbed. I need you to nurse me back to health.”

Valjean snickers, shifting his head to look up at him. “You do.”

“I can’t possibly get better on my own.”

“If it were up to you,” he says, and sighs again as Javert’s fingers smooth his brow, “you’d be back at work already.” He closes his eyes. “You’re not religious, are you?”

“Not particularly. My father was. Went to church every Sunday; I think I’m baptized. But once he left…” there’s the _whish_ of cloth rubbing against itself, and Valjean takes it to indicate Javert has shrugged. “Mom stopped. We celebrated Christmas and Easter, but more in the sort of ’we’ll have a nice meal, then watch a Hallmark movie and you get some candy’ sense.”

“Better than mine,” Valjean murmurs.

“Shut up. You’re right, but it’s depressing.”

He smiles halfway and sits up to take a sip of tea. Javert is grimacing, his free hand on his abdomen. Valjean frowns. “When was the last time you took pain meds?”

“Couple hours ago. Jean, it’s fine really. I’m not bleeding.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” Valjean replies, getting up. He opens a cupboard. “Are you allowed to take them with coffee?”

“Doubt it.”

He sighs and tosses the bottle of pain medication to Javert. “Don’t drink any more of the coffee than you already have. I’ll get you some water.”

Javert’s mouth is twisted in a scowl. He pours the pain meds into his hands. “I think I’m just going to take them all and over—“

“ _Don’t_ ,” Valjean snaps, whirling round, “even _joke_ about it.

The inspector looks at the table. He still scowls, but he picks the tablets of medication up, one by one, and drops them inside the bottle again. Valjean nods as he hands him a glass of water.

He sighs, sitting again, and watches Javert take the medication. Valjean traces the wooden grain of the table with a finger.

Gently, Javert reaches out, linking their hands together. Their eyes meet. Silence settles over them once more, but it is comfortable.

• • •

“Good morning.”

Javert feels the flutter of a kiss on his cheek. He opens his eyes, pushing himself up on his elbows. Valjean is smiling.

“Merry Christmas,” he says softly.

Javert groans. “I told you, I don’t really celebrate it.”

“Mm.” Valjean offers a hand, which Javert takes, and pulls him up. “Get up. I need to give you something.”

Javert shakes his head. “I said I didn’t want any presents.” A pain hits his leg, and he reaches for the cane. His fingers find only air. “Where’s that stupid cane?”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, lean on me.” Valjean offers his arm, which Javert takes.

It doesn’t keep him from grumbling. “I feel like an elderly man.”

“Don’t.” Valjean pulls him into the living room, stopping at the armchair. “Sit down. Close your eyes.”

“Why?” Javert asks, although he complies.

“Here.”

Valjean places something in his hands; it’s long and smooth and thin. Javert opens his eyes to see he’s holding a cane.

His breath catches in his throat. The cane is elegantly made; it is dark wood, polished, with a round handle at the top. Javert turns it over in his hands.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Where’d—where’d you get this?”  
“I have experience in woodworking from my twenties, and one of the men I worked with still has his own business.” Valjean shrugs. “And you kept complaining about how much you hated the hospital cane, so… I thought, why not? It didn’t cost too much.”

Javert smiles, but it falls quickly. “I don’t have anything for you.”

“That’s all right. Fantine and Simplice will have gifts for me, not that I wanted any.”

He nods. “We’re going over there, right?”

“Yeah.” Valjean pulls him off the armchair. “C’mon. Let’s get ready.”

 

“Papa!”

Cosette barrels into Valjean almost as soon as he opens the door. He laughs and pushes her back gently. “Merry Christmas, Cosette.”

“Thank you,” she says excitedly, clutching a doll. “I’m going to name her Catherine. She’s going to be a super soldier.”

“Of course.”  
Javert taps Valjean lightly on the shoulder. “Move. You’re blocking the doorway.”

Valjean moves, a little bashfully, with Cosette still practically clutching his waist. He hears snickering and looks up; Fantine is nestled with Simplice on the couch. Both are still in their pajamas, Simplice’s head on Fantine’s shoulder.

“Sit down,” Fantine says cheerfully. She eyes Javert’s cane. “Especially you, Javert. Don’t strain yourself.”

“I won’t,” Javert grumbles, settling in a chair. Valjean smiles at his scowl and sits on the floor beside him. Cosette hands him a doll and a doll-sized brush. He takes them and begins to brush the doll’s hair dutifully.

“I see Jean’s given you the cane already,” Simplice says in her soft voice, gesturing. “It’s nice.”

Javert smiles and looks down at the cane, almost reverently. “I like it.”

“He’s saying he loves it,” Simplice observes. Javert glares at her, but doesn’t loosen his grip on the cane.

Cosette taps Valjean on the shoulder, then touches the doll’s hair. “Braid?”

“Of course.” He starts braiding the doll’s hair. He looks up. “Fauchelevent’s coming over at noon, right?”

Fantine nods. She looks exhausted, her blonde hair mussed, and she drapes an arm over Simplice’s waist. “Jean, would you mind getting my coffee from the kitchen?”

“Why are you drinking coffee on Christmas?” he asks, although he obliges. Fantine shakes her head as he hands the mug to her.

“Don’t ask about people’s coffee needs, Jean,” Javert mumbles. He’s curled up in his seat, head on the arm of the chair. Valjean smiles.

“Exactly.” Fantine raises the mug to her lips, then pauses. “Did you just call him _Jean_?”

“Yes. Why?”

She grins, and Valjean sighs. Fantine raises her eyebrows. “This is a big step in your relationship, going from last name to first name. And it only took you nearly dying to get there.”

“Shut,” Javert says, “the fuck up.”

Cosette giggles. “We should make a swear jar.”

“We should not.”

Valjean smiles and sits on the floor by the armchair again. Javert reaches down as he bickers with Cosette, resting his hand on Valjean’s shoulder. He leans into the touch.

Cosette hands him the doll again, not stopping her argument for the necessity of a swear jar, and Valjean begins to braid it automatically. He glances over at Simplice and Fantine. They’re watching the scene with tired contentment, just as he is.

He smiles. _I wouldn’t trade this for anything_.

 

Later in the day, when they are not quite as tired, Fantine and Simplice present their gifts: a few potted succulents for Valjean, and leather gloves for Javert. Javert’s small smile doesn’t escape Valjean’s notice. The man might not want any gifts, but at least the ones they’ve given him are practical.

Then Valjean hands over the gifts he bought for Fantine and Simplice; a box of chocolates for Simplice to please her sweet tooth, and some bottles of nail polish for Fantine, the colors soft pastels. He’d had them put his gifts for Cosette under the tree, and she’s opened them already.

Fauchelevent arrives at noon, as expected. He gives everyone pastries as gifts aside from Cosette, for whom he reveals a small kit she can use to dye her hair temporarily. She gasps and clutches it to her chest, beaming. “Thank you!”

“Yes, thank you,” Fantine says quietly, but she’s grinning. Fauchelevent shrugs with a smile.

“I thought she’d like it.”

Javert stays in the armchair during the gift-giving, eyes on the floor and hands wrapped around his cane. Valjean walks over and sits on the arm of the chair, then touches Javert’s shoulder lightly.

“It’s all right that you didn’t have anything for anyone,” he says gently. Javert shakes his head.

“I should’ve… I should’ve anticipated this. I’ve always known that people give gifts on Christmas. Just because I never did doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have realized that it would be expected of me to—”

Valjean sighs. “It’s fine. No one minds.”

“I should’ve at least gotten something for you. I _live_ with you, for fuck’s sake.”

“Dollar in the swear jar,” Cosette chirps as she runs past them.

Javert glares after her. “I never agreed to that!” Then, looking up again, he mumbles, “it’s only proper that I give you something.”

Valjean kisses his cheek. “Your life is enough.”

• • •

The days after Christmas are bearable. Valjean has closed the shop for the “holiday season”, and his conversation gives Javert a welcome escape from boredom. Cosette and Simplice visit often.

Javert calls his mother on December 28, and she tells him she’ll be able to visit for New Year’s. Although he’s relieved he’ll see her again soon, New Year’s itself presents a new problem.

He’s never quite seen the point in celebrating it. Sure, it’s a new year, but it happens every year. It’s a fact of life—as long as the earth orbits the sun, there will be new years. So Javert has always spent the night working. Someone has to. Even if he doesn’t celebrate, he might as well free up time for another officer to.

Looking back, he realizes it’s one of the kindest things he’s done before meeting Valjean. It doesn’t sit well with him.

“What are we doing for New Year’s?” Javert asks on the 29th, lying on the couch again. Valjean is arranging his succulents.

“I have no idea,” he replies. “I was going to sleep through it, in all honesty.”

“Thank God,” Javert says. He watches the ceiling, not daring to move. His chest is rather sore today, and he’s terrified of straining himself to the point where he’ll never be the same again.

“We should do something,” he says about ten minutes later. His eyes haven’t left the ceiling, but he digs his fingernails into his palms. The habit is more painful than he remembers. Or he hasn’t clipped his nails in a while.

Valjean walks over and takes his hands, coaxing Javert’s fingers out of his palms. “Stop that. What were you thinking we’d do?”

“I don’t know. Drink, maybe.” He glances over at Valjean. “But considering what happened at Moretti’s, perhaps that isn’t the greatest idea.”

“It really isn’t.”

Javert sighs. “Let’s just sleep, then. I doubt I can even drink, what with all… this.”

“That sounds fine,” Valjean replies. He massages the reddest parts of Javert’s palms. “You really ought to stop doing this, you know.”

He grins crookedly. “I do know. But when have I ever listened to you?”

 

They do not end up sleeping.

11:30 pm on December 31st finds the two of them in the living room, the television on and playing a reality show at low volume. Javert is draped across Valjean’s lap on the couch, gesticulating wildly. Valjean pours himself another glass of rum and coke.

“This show,” Javert says, his words slurring slightly, “is inaccurate as _fuck_.” He points to the TV. “Police precincts don’t work like that! Nobody’s that close with each other _or_ ever that casual. It’s _ridiculous_.”

“It’s funny, though!” Valjean takes a long drink from his glass. “Ugh. How are we—where’d we get this?”

“Fauchelevent I think or maybe Fantine. Can I have my glass?”

“Here.” It slips from Valjean’s grasp a little, and a few drops fall onto Javert’s face. He wipes them off with the back of his hand, then downs nearly the entirety of what remains in the glass.

The rum did in fact come from Fantine, although it had been gifted to her first by Favourite with a smile and a whisper about having fun with Simplice. Fantine had then given the two bottles to Valjean as soon as possible; she struggled with alcohol in the past and wasn’t eager to drink again. All of this transpired before 8:00 pm on December 31.

And thanks to Valjean’s remarkably low tolerance for alcohol, he has succeeded in getting drunk in as little as two glasses of rum and coke. Javert lasted longer, but only made it to three. By now, they’ve lost track of the number of glasses they’ve had, although Valjean is pouring mostly coke with a splash of rum as opposed to a proper distribution.

Javert hiccups. “I haven’t drunk this much in—in—“ he frowns. “Never.”

“Mm.” Valjean throws back what’s left in his own glass. “I wanna make out. ’Sthat bad?”

“I wanna make out too.”

“Okay.”

He leans down, pressing his mouth awkwardly to Javert’s. It lasts only for a moment before Valjean sits up again with a frown.

“My back hurts like that,” he mumbles. “You tas’ like rum.”

“So do you,” Javert says, almost accusatorially. He pushes himself up until only his legs are sprawled across Valjean’s lap. 

Valjean leans forward again, entangling his hand in Javert’s hair, but he holds up a finger. He grabs his glass while Valjean stares and fills it with rum, then drinks.

“Okay.” Javert straightens. “I’m—let’s do this.”

It’s just as sloppy as it was in the back room of the flower shop all those months ago, wet and awkward. They bump teeth more than once. Valjean dissolves into giggles.

Javert slumps over his shoulder. “I-ow. I give up. God I’m _drunk_ …”

Valjean is tracing circles on his back. “I’m too.”

“You’re not making sense,” Javert murmurs without lifting his head. Valjean’s fingers ghost against the back of his neck, then slip into his hair again.

“Your hair is down,” Valjean murmurs. “I like it. You’re beautiful.”

Javert sighs into his shoulder. “So’re you. You smell nice aside from the rum.”

“Thanks.” Valjean kisses his forehead, still playing with his hair.

Javert wraps his arms around him, and for a moment or two, they rock back and forward slightly. Valjean’s shirt is damp with sweat, not that Javert cares. The room is quiet aside from the television. He inhales deeply.

“I love you,” Valjean whispers in his ear.

“I love you too.” Javert runs his fingers over the muscles in his back. “I love you so much.” He raises his head, bleary-eyed, to find Valjean is smiling.

This time when they kiss, it is far softer than before. Javert sighs at the feeling of Valjean’s calloused fingers in his hair.

Valjean moves his head, kissing a path along Javert’s jaw and down to his neck, to his collarbone. Javert leans his head back, eyes closed. Valjean is pulling down the neckline of his t-shirt, just far enough to kiss the top of his chest, and Javert finds he doesn’t mind.

“I love you,” Valjean whispers, pressing a kiss to Javert’s skin. “I love you. I love you. _I love you_.” Each repetition of the phrase is punctuated with another kiss. Finally, he rests his head on Javert’s shoulder. He does not close his eyes.

“My chest is sore,” Javert hums.

Valjean traces a triangle on his back. “I’m sorry.”

“Iss okay.”

Javert inhales again. The air is thick with the scent of rum and sweat; he wonders how that can be possible, what with it being December. Valjean’s hands are warm on his back, Valjean’s cheek is warm on his shoulder. Javert’s chest is sore, but the ache seems washed away in comparison with this.

The clock in the corner strikes; he smiles faintly. He kisses Valjean’s crown. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” Valjean murmurs drowsily. His fingers continue to ghost against Javert’s back in nonsensical patterns, as light as a summer breeze.

Javert closes his eyes. 


	9. Words Of A Mother And A Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Javert's mother stirs up unexpected emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for self-harm and mention of suicide.

When Javert wakes, it’s to a throbbing headache and his head on Valjean’s chest. He groans as he pushes himself up, then looks at the clock.

“Fuck,” he says, very softly. He nudges Valjean. “Jean, wake up.”

Valjean’s eyelids flutter open. “What? Oh, _God_.” He presses a hand to his forehead.

“It’s 10:37. My mother is supposed to come at 11.”

“Oh,” Valjean mumbles, still grimacing. Then he freezes. “Oh _shit_.”

“Exactly.”

They spend the next thirteen minutes in a panic, made only worse by Javert’s current handicap. He takes the shortest shower he’s ever had. Then he struggles to pull on the slacks and button-down he prepared for himself the day before.

Javert is still fumbling with the slacks when Valjean returns from his own shower. Wordlessly, Valjean takes him by the shoulders, pulling him to a standing position, and then Javert finally manages to pull the waistband over his hips.

His face burns. This helplessness, this… _inability_ is worse than the pain. Javert drops his eyes from Valjean’s gaze.

“Here.” Valjean hands him a comb. “We have four minutes, and your hair is… messy.”

He glances at the mirror. “That’s an understatement.”

When 11:00 rolls around, Javert is sitting on the couch with his new cane in one hand, his good leg shaking badly. Valjean is still getting dressed. Their cat jumps up on the couch beside him, and Javert strokes her ears absentmindedly.

He isn’t quite sure why he’s so nervous. His mother’s already met Valjean, and God knows he’s sung the man’s praises to her over the phone every week. Maybe it’s because he’s built up a perfect saint in his mother’s head, one that Valjean can never match up to.

But Javert knows that’s absurd. He’s complained about the man just as much as he’s complimented him. _Jean is too forgiving. Jean is too optimistic. Jean bites his nails down to the bed._

_Valjean is a criminal, just like Dad._

That had been two days after the bridge, when he was still conflicted about their entire relationship. He’s never mentioned it to Valjean, and he regrets the words immensely. Valjean is the exact opposite of his father in every way, from crime to fatherhood.

A knock on the doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts. Javert pushes himself off the couch with a grunt; Celia the cat meows and stalks away.

When he opens the door, his mother is standing there with a smile. She holds up a paper bag.

“I brought sub sandwiches,” she says. “Just in case. I know you forget.”

Javert feels his face heat. “I don’t always forget. Jean is still getting dressed. I—“ he steps aside so he no longer blocks the doorway. “Come inside.”

His mother ends up sitting at the table, but Javert can’t seem to calm himself. He fiddles with the cane idly. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“Some water would be nice.”

He jerks his head in an awkward nod before moving to get a glass; mentally, Javert chides himself. Why is he so nervous?

He’s never had anyone to bring home and show to his mother. Maybe that’s it. He’s unskilled at this, and trepidation is perfectly naturally when one’s new to something.

Javert’s hand shakes as he fills the glass anyway.

“Hello!”

He glances over his shoulder to see Valjean greeting his mother. The man is wearing a khakis and a green sweater that brings out the color in his hazel eyes nicely; Javert gulps and turns off the tap. He hands the glass to his mother.

“Thank you, love,” she says. Then she smiles up at Valjean. “It’s nice to properly meet you. ”

Valjean extends a hand, smiling as well. “Likewise.”

They shake. Javert fiddles with his cane some more, and then Valjean has a hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. I don’t want you straining your leg.”

“Of course, Jean,” Javert says mechanically. He sinks into a chair. Valjean sits beside him, then addresses Javert’s mother.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name back at the hospital,” he says.

“Aliz. And I know you’re Jean Valjean, of course, my son’s mentioned that enough.” She tilts her head to the side. “I’m sorry; I usually call him my son. He doesn’t like his first name, and it always feels awkward calling him Javert.”

Javert has sunk his head to the table by now, dark hair falling around his neck. He smiles. _My son_. It feels so good to hear the words from his mother’s mouth; they seem so natural, so… _right_.

Valjean pulls him back up by his shoulders gently, and Javert still hasn’t manage to wipe the grin from his face. His mother gasps softly.

“I haven’t seen him smile in so long,” she says, voice quiet. Javert casts his eyes downward.

He feels Valjean’s hand ghost against his back before coming to rest on his shoulder.“I have a feeling you’ll get to see him smile a lot more often,” Valjean replies, and a blush fills Javert’s face.

They end up eating the sandwiches his mother brought. Valjean had started preparing a meal yesterday, forbidding Javert from entering the kitchen, lest he fuck it up, but additional preparation had been necessary this morning. Which Valjean had obviously failed to manage. 

Javert talks little through the meal, mostly due to his terrible hangover. Somehow, his mother and Valjean manage to keep up a lively banter, which he pays only mild attention to.

Halfway through, Celia jumps up on the table. Javert gestures at her. “Off.”

“Don’t be so mean,” his mother chides, and begins to pet the tabby. Celia purrs. “I assume this is the cat you mention occasionally?”

“Her name is Celia, by the way,” Javert mumbles. “If I haven’t mentioned it.”

“You haven’t.”

But his mother is smiling, and it’s hard for him to remain downcast. The visit is going better than he possibly could have expected.

“How did the two of you meet, by the way? He’s talked a lot about you, Jean, but never actually about how you met.”

“Oh!” Valjean beams. “I assume you saw the flower shop beneath the apartment; I run it. Javert came in last April to buy flowers for his father’s funeral. I didn’t think anything of it, but he returned a few days later saying you had wanted to change the order.”

Javert’s mother throws a sharp look at him. “I don’t remember saying anything of the sort.”

He can feel both Valjean and his mother’s eyes on him. Javert clears his throat. “I wanted… I wanted to get to know you better.”

It’s not quite a lie. He doesn’t want to get into the specifics of their early relationship.

Valjean has a soft look to his features. “Javert, I—that’s so sweet.”

His mother is smiling too. Javert drops his gaze to his plate, a flush crawling up his neck again.

“Anyway,” Valjean continues, “we ended up getting together in August. He moved in back in November, and it’s been nice.”

“It’s been really nice,” Javert mutters.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Javert glances up. His mother has slid into her accent again. It’s slight, the product of being born in Hungary before emigrating at four with parents who spoke next to no English, but it’s still there. _It hasn’t been erased._

Itbrings back memories of his childhood; his mother trying to teach him bits of her native language, her slipping back into a heavier accent when she was frustrated or sad, the songs she’d sing while doing laundry, always in a language his own brain failed to grasp. Javert wonders if Valjean can pick up on it.

He knows his mother has actively repressed her accent for much of her adult life, but it still exists, usually stronger when she’s relaxed or tired. He feels something like hope. She’s relaxing around Valjean, which has to be good.

His mother reaches for her glass. “He’s mentioned that you’ve spent time behind bars.”

The hope in Javert’s chest extinguishes. He glances at Valjean.

“I have,” the man says, beginning to fiddle with his silverware. Javert’s mother frowns.

“I want you to know that it doesn’t matter at all,” she says softly. “My ex-husband was a criminal, yes, but I’ve spent time in prison myself. Javert was born there, in fact.”

Javert chokes on his sandwich. He has never heard this information before.

“Really?” Valjean asks, voice painfully measured. Javert sinks his nails into his palms.

His mother nods. “I was arrested for theft and sentenced to a year. I didn’t even know I was pregnant at the time. The three months after he was born were… difficult. They had a prison nursery, but it…” she clears her throat. “We were separated most of the time, and the only thing I wanted to do was see my child.”

Javert’s knuckles have turned white.

“I don’t care about your past,” his mother says, resting her hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “I know how bad it can be. People who have served time can be terrible, but they can also be some of the most wonderful people who just made a mistake. All I care about is that you treat my son well, and you seem to be doing an excellent job of that.”

“Thank you,” Valjean says. His voice cracks.

Javert is still dumbfounded.

It makes so much sense. Why she struggled to get a job, why the other parents when he was in school would avoid her. Her timid, disappointed reactions whenever Javert would rave about how the prison system was just and—

How gently she had assured him about Valjean. She had told him that if Valjean had been so kind to his family, God, kind to literally anyone he met, surely he was a good man.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Javert says quietly. He gets up and walks to the bathroom. Once there, he grips the edge of the sink and stares into the mirror.

 _I was born in prison. My mother went to prison_.

He closes his eyes. He had no right to treat Valjean as he did, back in June. He has never had any right to insult criminals. He’s the child of two, for God’s sake, and he’s in love with one. He’s known that he hasn’t been right to judge people so harshly, has known it for months. And yet the realization is hitting him again.

It’s hitting him over and over, like so many waves, and he’s drowning.

Javert opens his eyes again. His palms are stinging, and he looks down to see red blood smeared on the sink. He inspects his hands. His fingernails have dug so deep into his skin thatthree of the marks are bleeding.

It takes some effort to get the case of band-aids down. When Javert opens it, he sighs audibly. The bandages have obviously bought with the thought of Cosette getting injured in mind, and each is patterned with a type of fruit. He ends up using ones with watermelons, as they have white backgrounds and appear the most respectable.

Javert takes another deep breath. He leaves the band-aid case on the edge of the sink; Valjean will be able to put them back on the shelf.

He opens the bathroom door quietly, trying not to make too much noise, and then hears the voices in the kitchen.

“…isn’t hurting himself,” Valjean is saying. “I check. Occasionally, he’ll press his nails into his hands, but I always make him stop.”

Javert looks down at the watermelon-patterned band-aids. He clenches his fists around them.

His mother’s accent has become obvious now. “He had the same habit as a child. I know he… his attempt was back in June, but still, I worry. When Chabouillet called me, I thought maybe…”

“It’s okay.” Valjean’s voice is strained with emotion as well. “I worry a lot about him too. I think… you have a right to worry, but he’s getting better. He’s so much better than he was those months ago.”

“Thank you.”

Javert looks down at the floor. Then he takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.

 _Mom called me son. She sees me as her son_. _They care about me enough to make sure I don’t kill myself._

He walks into the kitchen again, and his mother and Valjean turn to smile at him. 

• • •

Valjean manages to keep calm through the rest of Aliz’s visit. He eyes the watermelon band-aids on Javert’s hands when the man returns, and makes a mental note to talk to him about them later. As well as other things.

Javert’s mother stays until about one. She mentions wanting to see Cosette, Fantine and Simplice, saying Javert has talked about them, but she needs to get back in order to make her shift.

“It’s New Year’s Day, though,” Valjean remarks, frowning.

Aliz shrugs. “I get paid a little extra when I work holidays, and every bit counts.”

“It does,” Javert mutters. His gaze has been firmly fixed to the table ever since he came back.

Goodbye is short. In this respect at least, Aliz is much like her son; the two hug for maybe a moment before parting.

“I’ll visit again,” Aliz says. “I’m not sure when, but soon.”

Javert smiles. “Thank you.”

Valjean nods in agreement.

He waits for almost an hour. Javert sits on the couch silently, Celia resting on his chest. Valjean curls up in his usual armchair after putting a movie from nearly fifteen years ago into the DVD player. They don’t talk. And the tension grows, until he can’t stand it, and pauses the TV.

“We need to talk,” he says slowly. Javert looks at him but doesn’t respond.

There’s a tightness in his chest, and Valjean can’t quite figure out what it is. He tries to find the right words.

“Wouldn’t you—why didn’t you understand?” he whispers. “I didn’t know, so it made sense, but after what your mother said—why not?”

Javert remains silent. He closes his eyes, turning his face away from Valjean, but his hand stills on the cat’s back.

“Javert, look at me. I want to know.”

And then Valjean realizes that the tightness is anger. He hasn’t been this angry in a long time.

“I… I was _sobbing_ when I told you. It was so _fucking_ hard.” Valjean clutches at the arms of his chair. “Do you know how much easier it would’ve been if you’d shared that little detail? And why didn’t you—why couldn’t you realize that I was an okay person? Did you think your mother was the only good person to ever commit a crime?”

He struggles to keep his breathing under control. “I want to know, Javert, _tell me_.”

“I didn’t know.”

Javert’s voice is dull; he hasn’t opened his eyes. Valjean stares at him, even though the man can’t see it.

“What?”

“I didn’t remember, if she ever did tell me,” Javert says. His voice sounds more robotic than human. “I thought I was born in a hospital, or whatever, until today. I didn’t know she went to prison.”

“Javert, I—“

“Stop. You had every right to be angry. You still do.”

Javert opens his eyes, but simply stares blankly up at the ceiling. Valjean bites his lip. He leans forward.

Finally, Javert moves. He raises a hand. “Don’t. You should leave me alone. Take some time to yourself. I’d leave, but I have a fucking cat on my chest and I forgot my cane in the kitchen.”

Valjean chuckles halfheartedly.

He gets up. It takes him a moment, then, to remember why, and Valjean retrieves his coat and phone with melancholy. He pauses as he pulls his boots on.

“I have my phone, if you want to call me,” he calls.

“Okay.”

He sighs, grabbing his keys, and then he leaves.

Valjean pauses on the landing. He isn’t quite sure where he’s going, only that he’s still sort of angry, and he wants to go. Somewhere. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know why he’s still angry, honestly; maybe he’s been building up a store he didn’t know about, and this opened it.

He takes a walk down the street to start. The shops are all closed, locally owned for the most part. Vaguely, he wonders if Fantine and Simplice are home. Then he remembers they’ve taken Cosette to visit with Simplice’s father.

He’s back at the flower shop again. Valjean kicks a small snowdrift with more force then necessary; it collapses completely.

The cold is beginning to bite at him already. He can see his reflection in the glass of the shop’s windows: his cheeks are pink, and there are fresh snowflakes in his hair. He can see his breath.

But he isn’t ready to go back inside again. Valjean sighs, leaning against the shop door.

The street is still, everyone either inside, tired from the previous night’s festivities, or off visiting loved ones. It’s an odd feeling, being the only one on an empty street. He can’t tell if it’s a good one or not.

His fingers brush against the keys in his pocket. _I’ll drive somewhere_.

Valjean doesn’t know where he’s going to drive, just as he didn’t know where he was going earlier, but his feet are leading him to his car and his fingers are putting the keys in the ignition. He sighs, hitting his head against the wheel, and then he starts driving.

He’s been driving aimlessly for about an hour when he notices a police cruiser has begun to follow him. Valjean curses.

“A Puerto Rican man is driving around nice neighborhoods,” he mutters to himself. “Better follow him.”

He tries to think of a destination, and then he remembers that the cathedral isn’t far from here. Maybe ten minutes. He knows exactly how to get to it, too, and he starts the path.

The doors are open, as always. Myriel doesn’t lock them, even after what Valjean did all those years ago. Valjean takes a deep breath.

He hasn’t been inside of a church in six years. He’s seen Myriel since then, of course, he sees him often. But the last time Valjean was in a church, he had a panic attack after fifteen minutes.

The thought of the police officer watching him finally makes him put his hand on the doorknob and open the heavy door. He’s pretty sure that worship spaces, like churches, grant some sort of immunity; he can’t be arrested in here.

 _You’re not going to be arrested_ , Valjean tells himself, but he can’t help but glance over his shoulder surreptitiously.

He sits in the very last pew. The cathedral intimidates him, it always has. It’s the size of a football field, covered in religious symbolism. It always makes him feel so very small. It always reminds him of that small church in the south, despite the difference in size. 

Valjean curls up in the pew, leaning his back against its arm. The cathedral’s ceiling is painted with scenes of golden-haired angels.

He closes his eyes against them.

 

Valjean wakes to a hand on his shoulder. It takes him a second to remember where he is.

“Hello, Jean,” Bishop Myriel says gently. “What brings you here?”

Valjean sits up, blinking sleep from his eyes. He looks down at his feet. “A fight.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I…” he fiddles with the cuff of his jacket. “Sure.”

They end up in the basement, where Myriel keeps a coffee machine and some sweets in the cupboard. He makes a cup for himself and Valjean.

“I don’t really drink coffee, Father,” Valjean mumbles, and Myriel smiles.

“Baptistine keeps tea somewhere down here, but I don’t want to find it and I’m probably too short to reach it. I’ll just put lots of cream into yours.”

“Not too much. Fauchelevent says your coffee’s so sugary, he’s surprised you haven’t had a heart attack yet.”

Myriel laughs as he sits down. “He’s probably right.” Then his expression turns somber, and he pushes one cup in Valjean’s direction. “What happened? When I came into the church, for a moment I thought I’d stepped into the past.”

“I…” Valjean pauses. He wraps his hands around the coffee; the warmth is a comfort to his frozen fingers. “I have a boyfriend now.”

Myriel nods. “Fauchelevent told me.”

“His name’s Dominik Javert. It’s just Javert, really, he hates being called Dominik. But he’s a cop.” Valjean looks up. “Did Fauchelevent tell you that?”

“No.”

“Yeah,” Valjean mumbles. “He has a very black and white idea of the law. Had. In—In June, he found out I’d been to prison, and then he stopped calling me for a week or two and it was so _scary_ , the idea that he would never want to see me again. I got so depressed, and…”

He breaks off. Myriel’s face softens, and he pats Valjean on the shoulder reassuringly. “Go on, if you can.”

“When he came back, he apologized and asked me to forgive him. He told me that he had been about to kill himself, because h’d realized how wrong he’d been about the law and shit and he only stopped because he thought I would—I would mourn.” He wipes at his eyes. “And it’s gotten better, it has, but sometimes he’ll scratch at his hands. He doesn’t think I noticed. Do you—do you remember how an officer got stabbed by Eugéne Thénardier, back in December?”

“I do,” Myriel says slowly.

“That was Javert. Nobody knew if he’d make it, and he did.” Valjean fiddles with the rim of the paper cup. “But Father, when we got back from the hospital, he told me... he was laying on the couch and he told me that he thought it might’ve been better if Thénardier had killed him. I just… I’m just worried.”

“You mentioned a fight,” Myriel’s voice is soft. “What happened?”

“I… We had his mother over today. She wanted to tell me that she didn’t care I’d gone to jail, and she told me that she’d been. That Javert had been _born_ while she was in prison. And I got angry with him, after she left, because I thought he’d known it. That back in June, he’d left me hanging because I’m an ex-con even though his mother is too, and he knew that people could change. And I was so… so angry, Father,” Valjean whispers. He drags a hand down his face. “I was so angry.”

“And?”

Valjean exhales. “He hadn’t known. So I feel like I didn’t have any reason to yell at him, but I’m still angry. He told me that I should take some time to myself. I got in the car, and I ended up here.”

He lays his head on the table. He knows this basement well; he spent six weeks here in the dead of winter when he wouldn’t have had any place to stay otherwise. Myriel had treated himlike a _person_ , when he’d been used to being treated like a dog or worse. And how had Valjean repaid him? By stealing the priest’s silver.

“Maybe he was right,” Valjean mutters. “I got out, and I just stole all over again. It’s only because of you that I didn’t get convicted again.” 

“Cut the shit, Jean.”

He looks up. “What?”

“I said cut the shit.” Myriel shakes his head, tight grey curls illuminated in the lamplight. “You were desperate, because you’d been left with no other means. It wasn’t your fault, but that’s… not an issue I have the strength for right now. I have to say Mass in forty minutes.”

“It’s not Sunday.”

“It’s a holy day. One of Mary’s feast days.” Myriel takes a sip of his coffee, then leans forward. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve let yourself be angry, but I know you, and I know how you keep things to yourself if you think it’ll hurt someone. It’s good to feel anger. Helps you pass through it. And it seems like this set you off, and now…” he shrugs. “You had a lot to work through.”

“Thank you.”

“Please don’t ask me for relationship advice. I know I was married once, but it was over forty years ago. I’m sure your situation is very different.”

Valjean chuckles. “I’m sure.”

He closes his eyes. He’d be content to sit like this for hours, and he has a dull headache that has stayed through the day. Part of his hangover, mostly like. “Rum and coke was a mistake,” he mumbles, massaging his temple. Myriel snickers.

“What time is it, Father?” Valjean asks. He isn’t remotely aware of how long he’s been here.

“Just past six. Why?”

“Just past…” Valjean bolts upright. “ _Shit_. I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ve been gone for four hours and it’ll take me thirty minutes to get home, and I—thanks for the coffee, Father.” He starts buttoning up his coat again.

Myriel nods, standing himself. “It’s no trouble. And Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“You can talk to me any time, all right?”

Valjean’s fingers still for a moment. Then he smiles. “Thank you.”

“Happy New Year, Jean Valjean.” Myriel picks up Valjean’s untouched coffee cup. He pours it into his own.

“Likewise, Father.”

• • •

Valjean gets a call on the way home; he fumbles with his phone for a moment before finally hitting speakerphone.   
“Jean Valjean,” he says loudly, due to his phone’s admittedly not great quality. “Who is it?”

“It’s Jeanne.”

 _Oh_. He makes his voice a little happier. “Hi, Jeanne. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if I could come visit soon? I haven’t seen you in nearly a year, and it seems like it’ll be nice to catch up. The kids are finally out of my hair.”

“Oh, how are they?”

Valjean misses his nieces and nephews, seeing them rarely. Jeanne had seven originally. Only five remain; the first four had enlisted in the military as soon as they graduated high school. Two hadn’t made it back.

Their deaths, combined with her husband’s, have hit Jeanne hard. Valjean has tried very hard to be as involved as possible, but it’s difficult when there’s a three-hour drive between you. Her other children have been very supportive.

“They’re doing well,” Jeanne says. “I’ve got lots to talk about. When are you free?”

“Is next weekend good?”

“It works, I think. Yeah. How’s life been for you?”

“It…” he pauses. “It’s had its ups and downs.”

They talk until Valjean gets to his apartment. He finds he enjoys it; he vents about certain customers, gushes about Cosette’s progress at school, talks about the Tholomyès matter. Somehow, he forgets to mention Javert.

And then Valjean finds himself at the base of the apartment stairs, and he realizes he hasn’t mentioned his boyfriend of five months to his sister. “Jeanne, I’ve got to go, but there’s one last thing.”

“What?”

“I met this man in April. He’s my boyfriend now. I’ll tell you more later.”

“Jean—“

“Bye, love you!”

Valjean feels guilty about hanging up on Jeanne, but honestly, he isn’t in the mood to deal with her questions about Javert. There’s a very good possibility they’ll turn into questions about his sexuality, and he’s too tired to deal with those right now.

He slides his phone into his pocket as he opens the apartment door. “I’m home, Javert.”

There’s no response. Valjean swallows the fear that has wormed its way into his throat, then walks into the living room. Javert is still on the couch. The scene is largely unchanged: the movie is still paused on the television, the cat still sits on Javert’s chest. The only difference is that Javert is now in a dark blue sweater.

“Hey,” Valjean says quietly. Javert looks up, eyes focusing. He nods before closing his eyes once more.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“It’s okay.”

Valjean sits, then shifts Javert’s head onto his lap. The man’s hair is down; it’s been down all day, but is as smooth as it was when he brushed it this morning. Valjean runs a hand through it, thoughtful.

“My sister’s coming over this weekend. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Javert mumbles.

Valjean remembers his promise to Aliz. He runs a thumb over Javert’s shoulder. “Can I see your arms for a second?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because....“ Javert folds his arms over his chest. “Because you don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“Let me see your arms.”

“Fuck off.”

“You will not win this battle,” Valjean mutters, and reaches for Javert’s wrist. For a moment, their eyes meet; Javert isn’t healthy enough to fully struggle, but his expression is dark. Valjean grabs his wrist with a vise-like grip.

Even still, he has to force Javert’s arm away from his body. Valjean takes a deep breath, then pushes the sleeve up.

He inhales sharply again. “Oh, love.”

Angry red lines snake up Javert’s forearm; in five spots, a bandage covers the skin. Valjean wants to cry.

“Is it the same on the other arm?” he asks quietly. Javert nods. Valjean lessens his grip on his arm, and Javert rips it away. He clutches it close to his chest.

Valjean gets up slowly. “I’m going to get the nail clippers.”

“Why?” Javert asks sharply.

“Those are… those are scratches. It’s best if we clip your nails, so you can’t scratch yourself anymore.”

Javert doesn’t protest verbally, but when Valjean returns, he has pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his fingers and refuses to let go. It takes considerable effort for Valjean to work the sweater out of his grip and uncurl Javert’s fingers, but he manages.

Once Javert’s nails have been clipped as close to the bed as safely possible, the fight seems to go out of him. He sags against Valjean, who wraps his arms around him in return.

“I’m sorry,” Javert mumbles. Tears are tumbling down his face. “I just—I don’t know. I needed to be punished.”

“Shut up,” Valjean breathes. “No you didn’t. You didn’t.”

“You’re wrong.”

Valjean shifts, then cups Javert’s face in his hands. “You cannot hurt yourself, do you understand? You don’t deserve it.” His voice cracks. “For the next couple weeks, I want to be there when you shave, and you’re not allowed to help cook. I’m not—I’m not asking you. We’re doing this.”

“Why—oh,” Javert mumbles. “That’s a good idea.”

Valjean runs a hand through his hair. “You’re going to get better. I promise. I’m getting better. I’ll help you, I’ll find someone to help you. I promise you’ll get better.”

“Thank you.”

Javert wraps his fingers around Valjean’s hands, and after a few minutes, he lays his head in his lap again. Valjean bites his lip, then continues to stroke his hair.

The only light comes from the TV, thin and waning, and the street lamps outside. _How long has he been sitting here in darkness?_

Valjean knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

“What’s you sister like?” Javert asks abruptly, eyes still closed.

“She’s nice,” he replies. “She doesn’t know I’m dating you. Well. She knows I’m dating a man, doesn’t know your name.”

“Why?”

“We don’t talk much.”

Silence settles over them. Valjean closes his eyes; he’s so tired, and it’s not even seven. He thinks. He hasn’t checked the time in a long while.

“Jean,” Javert breathes after a while, and Valjean opens his eyes slightly.

“Yes?”

“I’m really sorry.”

Valjean closes his eyes once more. “There isn’t anything to apologize for.”


	10. Smoke and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeanne visits. It doesn't turn out as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long this has taken, oh my God... I didn't mean to postpone this so long, but my classes have been really intense and I've sort of had to put this fic on the back burner for a bit. I'll try not to take so long before the next update.  
> Also, sort of cw for cigarettes? There's a lot of them in this chapter; I know some people have had bad experiences. There's discussion of suicide/self-harm as well.

The next few days are difficult, to say the least.

Javert has never actually hurt himself physically before—he’s beaten himself up enough mentally, but never physically.

His arms still sting. He isn’t quite sure whether it’s his imagination or not.

Valjean takes off work for the week, letting Fauchelevent run the flower shop in his absence. He stays with Javert constantly: the two of them sit tucked together on the couch, Valjean reads on the floor of the bathroom while Javert showers.

On the one hand, it’s reassuring, and he even finds comfort in Valjean’s fussing. But on the other, he knows that the only reason Valjean is doing this is because he’s scared that Javert will hurt himself again.

Maybe he should be scared; maybe he shouldn’t. Javert isn’t sure himself.

On Thursday, Valjean sits down beside him on the couch and wraps an arm over his shoulders. Javert looks over at him.

“What?” he snaps. “You haven’t held me like this since before the stabbing. Sober, at least.”

Valjean buries his face in his shoulder. “I want to talk about my sister.”

Javert pushes him off immediately. “I don’t want to talk about your sister when you’re hanging off me like that, _disgusting_ —“

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Valjean mumbles. He rubs his temples. “I just… I want to make you comfortable when I tell you about her.”  
Javert raises his eyebrows. “Okay. Talk.”

“She’s, uh, she’s nice. About eight years older than me.” Valjean rests his head on his shoulder once more. “Our parents died when I was thirteen, and she took me in and raised me.”

“How?”

“What do you mean, _how_?”

“How’d they—“ he stops. “It might still hurt. I shouldn’t ask how they died, should I?”

“You really shouldn’t.”

“Talk about your sister, then.”

Valjean nods. “Her name’s Jeanne—you are _not_ allowed to make fun of it,” he scolds, eyeing Javert’s arched eyebrow. “Let me keep talking. She has seven kids—five now. Don’t ask about it unless she brings it up. She loves kids a lot, but hers are all grown up.”

“ _Why_ did you think I needed to be comfortable about this, again?”

“Because we’re gay,” Valjean says quietly.

Javert pauses. “What?”

“See, when I came out, I was nineteen.” Valjean takes his hand. “She’s… very Catholic. I came out when I did because at that point, I had the means to live on my own. I was afraid of her reaction. When I told her, at first it didn’t seem like I had anything to worry about, like she accepted it. And then the next day she was completely cold with me. Her husband didn’t speak with me for about seven weeks.”

“Asshole.”

Valjean smiles wryly. “After he died, Jeanne explained that he was against me, for being gay or whatever shit. I don’t think he ever really liked me in the first place. But things… changed between me and her. It’s awkward now, and I think it’ll be awkward when she meets you. I only told her about you on Monday night.”

“Why?”

“It’s too difficult,” he mumbles.

Javert shrugs. “I wouldn’t care if you never told her about me. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Valjean closes his eyes. “But Jeanne loves Cosette; she loves kids. I think it’s a good idea to have Cosette around when she comes over, so it ends well.”

“Won’t it be awkward, tiptoeing around those… topics?”

“Maybe. But no one tiptoes around anything around Cosette,” he says decisively. “She’s just…”

“Cosette.”

“Yes.”

“I’m fine with that,” Javert says, leaning his head against Valjean’s. “What I am _not_ fine with is that your elbow’s digging into my side. Move.”

Valjean laughs, voice velvety, and Javert can’t help but smile at the sound. It’s the first time he’s smiled for a while.

• • •

“When’s Aunt Jeanne coming?”

“I don’t fucking know, Cosette,” Valjean hears Javert say, voice exasperated. “She was due here ten minutes ago.”

Cosette responds almost triumphantly. “Swear jar!”

“I didn’t agree to that!”

“Papa did.”

“Jean!”

Valjean chuckles, peering around the corner into the living room. “What do you need?” he asks innocently, drying a plate with a dish towel.

Javert scowls from the couch. “I’m not doing a swear jar.”

“You should. Cosette’s already picked up enough language from you.”

“It isn’t all from him,” Cosette pipes up matter-of-factly. She’s sitting at the nearer end of the couch, the cat curled on her lap. “I hear a lot from Mama.”

“See? Fantine should have to do one too!”

Valjean smiles and shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by a knock at the door.

“There’s your aunt, Cosette,” Javert grumbles. He grabs his cane, but doesn’t push himself to his feet.

Cosette has already leapt up from the couch, grinning, and Valjean follows her to the front door. As soon as he opens it, she launches herself into Jeanne’s arms.

“Hi, Auntie Jeanne!” Cosette cries. Her voice is muffled by Jeanne’s coat. “Missed you!”

Jeanne smiles. “I missed you too,” she says softly, and pulls back. “My, you’ve grown. Is that a cat in your arms?”

Cosette beams. “This is Celia. She’s Javert’s cat, but he lives with Papa now so it’s Papa’s cat too.”

Valjean places the plate and dishtowel on the counter, glad Javert didn’t seem to hear the remark. _He’d likely have launched into a rant about ownership_. Then he waits patiently for his sister to greet him.

“She’s a pretty kitty,” Jeanne is saying, and Cosette hugs Celia. Valjean thanks God the cat likes being hugged.

Then Jeanne straightens, turns to Valjean, and they embrace silently. It only lasts a moment before they draw back from each other.

“It’s been too long,” Jeanne says with a soft smile.

“Your hair’s gone gray,” Valjean observes. “Finally given up on coloring it?”

She smacks his shoulder. “Pot, kettle. Your forehead has acquired quite a few lines.”

“Have I?” Valjean touches his brow. “It’s been a stressful year.”

“You look older than me, and I can remember when you were born,” Jeanne replies. She touches Cosette’s shoulder. “Who looks older, me or your Papa? If you say it’s him, I’ll give you extra of the candy I brought.”

Cosette grins, then just her chin forward. “I’m impervious to bribes.”

“Good,” Valjean says with a laugh. Cosette grins, then dashes off towards the living room again—presumably to needle Javert about the swear jar once more.

Valjean sniffs the air. “You’ve been smoking.”

“What can I say?” his sister replies, more than slightly resigned. She removes her coat and hangs it in the closet. “It helps with the stress.”

“That’s what Javert says. I’ve hidden his pack under the sink, too low for him to reach, and he isn’t fit to drive for more.”

Jeanne pauses. “What?”

“Oh.” He hesitates, then puts a hand on her arm and steers her towards the living room. “It’s a long story, one I’m not sure I can explain by myself.”

When they reach the living room, Cosette and Javert are sitting together, petting the cat. Valjean feels a wave of affection wash over him.

“What are you doing?” he asks as seriously as he can manage. Javert’s hand snaps to his side, eyes flicking to Valjean.

“I’m sitting with Cosette,” Javert says quickly, and reaches for his cane. He stands, offering a hand to Jeanne. “I’m Javert. Jean’s told me a lot about you.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” She casts a glance at Valjean. “I’m very interested in what my baby brother had to say about me.”

Valjean raises an eyebrow. “Not a baby. I told him that you’re a terrible woman who smokes and dyes her hair to hide the gray.”

“I smoke,” Javert says, almost accusatorially. Then he turns to Jean. “He told me that you’re very kind.”

Jeanne beams. “Thank you, Jean. Now, Javert, I have a question for you. Who looks older—me or Jean?”

“Don’t do this,” Valjean laughs. “He’s painfully honest.”

Javert studies them for a moment, holding his chin thoughtfully. At last he says, “you look the same age. It’s Jean’s hair; if his was gray, you’d look older.”

“Ha!”

Jeanne manages to maintain an air of dignity. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“Naturally,” Javert replies.

They don’t eat immediately, but instead sit in the living room to talk. Jeanne has the entire day to visit, and she doesn’t seem to see a reason to rush it.

She doesn’t immediately ask as to Javert’s cane and Valjean’s remark about his inability to drive, thankfully. Instead, the conversation meanders around general topics: the flower shop, Jeanne’s children and grandchildren, a few questions about Javert. The man shifts uncomfortably whenever they're asked, and Valjean wishes he had the forethought to tell his sister about him instead.

They begin to run out of conversation topics that won’t ruffle any feathers, and the talk grows stilted. Valjean is fiddling with his cuff sleeves, trying to find another thing to talk about when Cosette walks into the room again, the cat trailing behind her.

“You said you brought me candies, Aunt Jeanne,” she says. Jeanne laughs and hands over her purse.

Valjean eyes the bandages crossing over her arms. “Cosette, why are you wearing band aids? Did something happen?”

“Javert was wea’ing ‘em,” Cosette replies through a mouthful of candy. “They looke’ cool.”

Javert blanches. He’d been wearing a t-shirt when Cosette first came over, the band aids on his own arms prominent, and had changed quickly. Valjean touches his arm gently and looks at him with what he hopes is a comforting look.

He chances a glance at Jeanne. She looks confused.

Cosette sticks another candy in her mouth. “Anyboby wanna play monob’ly wi’ me?”  
“We have to eat soon, sweetheart,” Valjean says gently. “How about afterwards?”

“Okay.”

Dinner is far less awkward, thanks to Cosette’s presence. The only hiccup is when Jeanne asks how school is going.

“It’s really fun!” Cosette takes a gulp of milk from her glass. “I’m really good at english and social studies but I’m not so good with math. Or science. Mama helps me with math and Mom helps with science.”

“You have Mama and Mom?” Jeanne asks, and Valjean freezes. Cosette nods.

“Mama is Fantine and Mom is Simplice. They’re getting married in a month, and I get to be the flower girl,” she proclaims, grinning.

There’s a beat. Then Jeanne smiles. “That’s lovely.”

Valjean sighs, but he can still feel his pulse thrumming. He glances over at Javert; the man is eating silently, expressionless.

They play monopoly after dinner, just as Cosette has requested. Javert is shockingly good at it. By the end, he and Cosette are tied for the most properties, and he’s only been to jail once. Valjean has been four times, and Jeanne has poked fun each time. Javert is indifferent, which… he didn’t quite expect.

They finish just before Fantine arrives at the door, asking for Cosette, as it’s around 9:30. She stays to chat, and Simplice finally comes over to drag her family home to bed.

Valjean checks his watch as the door closes. 10:16.

He places a hand on Javert’s arm. “It might be a good idea to go to sleep,” he says quietly. “The doctors said to rest, and you’ve been staying up too late these past few nights.”

“That was in December,” Javert replies.

“It’s January 5.”

Javert sighs, sitting in the armchair, and rubs his forehead. “I’ve been staying up because of _you_ , Jean, idiot. I—“

“Can I ask something?”

They turn to look over at Jeanne, still putting away the monopoly board. She’s always been a very neat person.

“Of course,” Javert replies. Jeanne finishes placing the money in the box before looking up again.

“What happened?” she asks. “The cane, and the rest—if I may ask.”

Valjean pauses, then looks over at Javert. It’s his story to tell.

“I was stabbed,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate.

Jeanne’s face has gone pale. “Stabbed! What… what happened?”

Javert sighs. “I’m a police inspector. We’d— _I’d_ been tracking a crime boss, hardly anyone gave me any fucking help—for several months. When I finally found him to arrest him, he tried to kill me. Said I’d ruined his life, so he was going to take mine. His trial is scheduled for the end of January. I get to testify.”

“Oh.”

Valjean frowns as he looks at his sister’s face. The worry has washed from it, replaced by a slight coldness he’s rarely seen. If Javert notices it—and he notices everything, Valjean’s sure—he doesn’t comment upon it.

Valjean touches his shoulder again. “Please get to bed. I want you to rest.”

“Nag,” Javert mumbles, reaching for his cane. “You worry too much.”

“That’s Jean for you,” Jeanne says, but she doesn’t smile. Javert’s mouth, however, twists upwards for a moment.

Valjean wonders what sort of dream he’s having, that Jeanne is cold and Javert is smiling.

Javert pauses in the hallway to the bedroom, then looks over his shoulder. “Jean said you smoked?”

“I do.”

He turns fully. “Can I borrow a pack?” he asks. “I smoke when I’m stressed and Jean’s hidden mine. I’ll pay you back in the morning.”

“Jeanne—“ Valjean starts, but his sister is already pulling a pack out of her purse and tossing it to Javert. He catches it with a grimace.

“Thanks. Good night.”

“Good night,” Jeanne replies.

“Don’t smoke them in the bedroom!” Valjean calls, scowling. He hears Javert laugh.

He sighs, collapsing onto the couch. Then he looks over at Jeanne. “Why do you do this to me?”

“He’s paying me for them,” she answers. She places the lid on the monopoly box, apparently satisfied with the arrangement, and slides it onto the coffee table. “That pack only has three left, anyway. I’ve got another.”

She sits down at the other end of the couch, reaching for her purse. Valjean sits up.

“Do _not_ smoke those in my apartment,” he says sternly.

“I wasn’t going to.” Jeanne smirks, pulling out candy instead. She points her chin towards the hallway. “Does he smoke after sex?”

Valjean turns red. “We don’t—that doesn’t happen, we don’t do it.”

"He mentioned you've been keeping him up, so I assumed..."

"You assumed wrong," he mumbles. "I don't let him smoke inside, anyway. I hate the stench."

“Not even in the stairwell.”

“I told you,” Valjean grumbles, and grabs some of the candy. “I don’t like the smell.”

Jeanne raises an eyebrow, but simply unwraps another candy and pops it in her mouth.

She started smoking young, once she turned eighteen. When Valjean was twelve, he’d stolen a cigarette and tried to smoke it. He’d ended up coughing for a week. He’s never smoked again. The house he’d grown up in had always stank of cigarette smoke, as did the one he’d spent his teenage years and twenties in.

It hadn’t been fun. Jeanne tried to smoke outside, and never when she was pregnant, but her husband hadn’t seemed to care.He’d died from lung cancer, untreated. Hadn’t wanted to use what little finances they’d had on hospital bills. After that, Valjean thought Jeanne would stop. Clearly, he’d been wrong.

“Cigarettes are awful,” he says, almost in a conversational tone. “Fantine gave them up because she doesn’t want Cosette to live in a place that reeks of smoke.”

Jeanne raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying my house reeks of smoke?”

“Yes.”

She smiles a little then. “I can always count on you to be honest.”

“Can you?” Valjean murmurs. He plays with the candy wrapper in his hands. Takes a deep breath. And then he raises his head to ask the question he’s been wanting to ask all night.

“What do you think of Javert?” he says softly.

There’s a short silence, in which his pulse climbs to a height he didn’t think was possible. Finally, Jeanne looks over at him.

“I don’t like him.”

Valjean finds his breath matching his pulse, and he forces himself to breath through his nose instead of his mouth. He draws his legs up and hugs his arms around them. “Why?”

“You look like a kid, Jean,” his sister observes, tilting her head to the side.

“Answer the question. Please.” He grabs another candy.

“He’s a cop.”

 _Oh_.

“It makes sense, then,” Valjean whispers. He closes his eyes. God, when was the last time he had a panic attack? “I just… he’s different. I promise.”

“How?”

“Because he’s trying… he’s trying to get better, Jeanne,” he says frantically. “He knows he’s fucked up before and that the system’s fucked up in general. He almost killed himself when he realizes and sometimes he lapses and freaks out about it and he _knows_ that I’m an ex-con, he worked there, and—“

He’s hyperventilating now. Why is it _this_? Why is it he’s panicking about _this_ , about Jeanne’s view on Javert?

Jeanne is placing a gentle hand on his back. “Breathe, Jean. Breathe.”

“I know, I’m trying, I—“

“It’s okay.”

“I know that the police are shit,” he whispers. “That justice has been twisted around and is manipulated constantly. You know I do. But Javert is just one cop and he’s trying to get better, and he hates it when the law is twisted around, and—“

“ _Calm down_.”

“That doesn’t work! You know that it doesn’t work, not even when I was little and Mom had just died and—“

“I know,” Jeanne says softly. “I understand.”

Valjean buries his face in his arms. “He’s trying, he’s trying really hard. I hate cops just as much as you do, but he’s different.”

“They took my little brother from me and they put you in a place where you were abused for seven years.” She strokes his hair. “Of course you hate them just as much.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“I am. I’m hearing you. And thank you for explaining that Javert is trying to be a good cop and understands the system’s faults. I just don’t really like him.”

“Why?” Valjean whispers. “Is it because I’m gay?”

Jeanne stills. “No, Jean, it’s not—“  
“I remember what it was like when I came out—“

“That was all Luc, you know that.”

“—and I saw what happened when Cosette mentioned Fantine and Simplice are getting married. It’s because Javert’s a man and I’m a man, isn’t it?”

“Jean, it isn’t.”

“It is.” He doesn’t want to be hugged by her anymore, but he’s still hyperventilating a little and his body is so _weak_. “There’s no other fucking reason for you to dislike him.” 

“There are.”

“Like what?” Valjean asks. He wants to demand it, to make her tell him, but he can’t muster the energy.

“He doesn’t talk a lot, he’s brusque, he argues with you, he’s too competitive with Cosette—“

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He lifts his head slightly. “It’s really hard for him, I think. He… I’m the first person besides his mother he’s ever opened up to, and he’s forty seven years old. He’s still learning how to function around other people.”

“But you shouldn’t have the burden of teaching him how,” Jeanne presses.

“I’m not, he’s teaching himself, and he’s learning how to from other people too. He’s really competitive with Cosette because he’s competitive in general, and she loves it—“ he takes a deep breath. “He’s angry because he feels helpless, that he needs his cane and he can’t go work for another month and a half. He’s quiet because he just hurt himself and he—“

“ _What?_ ”

Valjean freezes. Then he looks behind him, to the hallway. “Javert, are you awake?” he calls. There’s no answer. He adjusts his legs, hugging them again.

“He scratched himself up the other night,” he whispers. “It was so bad some started bleeding, that’s why Cosette said he was wearing band aids. He gets quiet after shit like that.”

“I’m sorry, Jean.”

They don’t speak after that. Valjean nearly falls asleep like that, and just as he’s drifting off, Jeanne wakes him.

He faintly registers her pulling him up, guiding him to the bedroom, and he falls into bed. Valjean sighs and presses his face into Javert’s back.

Someone pulls a blanket over him; he succumbs to sleep.  
• • •

Javert wakes early in the morning. Valjean is wrapped around him, still asleep, and one hand is pressed painfully low on his chest.

He unentangles himself from the man and sits up, groaning. His chest aches.

He eyes the pack of cigarettes on the table. He hasn’t smoked in weeks, months perhaps, but the last few days have been so stressful and he cant figure out where Valjean hid his own pack. Javert suspects it’s somewhere low to the ground he cannot reach.

It’s a tedious task to lift himself over Valjean, careful not to wake the man, but he manages. Then he grabs the cigarettes and his cane.

His lighter is in the inside pocket of his coat, where he always keeps it, and Javert tugs the coat on. He slides on his boots, not bothering to tie them, and leaves.

Javert rarely smokes at home now. Valjean has forbidden him from doing it in the apartment or the stairwell, which is…. inconvenient. Particularly now that he must rely on the cane.

He fights back a groan with each step he takes down the stairs. Valjean’s hold on him in the night has made his chest ache.

Jeanne is standing outside, a cigarette in her own hand, staring at the snowy alley. Javert frowns.

“I thought you’d gone,” he says, opening the pack she gave him.

She looks over. “I slept on the couch. Jean had… a breakdown after you went to bed. Thought it’d be best to stay.”

“Probably was.”

“You’re paying me back for those.”

Javert pauses, lighter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Then he nods. Jeanne smiles self-righteously for a moment, but it vanishes just as quickly.

They stand in silence for a few minutes. Javert’s leg aches; he curses Thénardier’s name inwardly. He misses being able to _stand_ without pain.

“Has he ever broken down in front of you?”

He glances over. Jeanne doesn’t repeat the question, but it’s clear she’s expecting an answer. He nods.

“There were two times; one when it was terrible and another when it wasn’t as bad. The worse one was before we started dating.” Javert pauses, wondering if he should tell the rest of the story, then continues. “A shop on the street was robbed, and I and a partner were doing door duty. Routine stuff, asking if anyone had seen anything. Jean had a sort of mix of a panic attack and a PTSD attack. There was another time, when I took him to a restaurant. The crowd made him nervous.”

“He’s never liked crowds,” Jeanne says quietly.

“You’d think it was a prison thing, from having to eat in the cafeteria and shit, but it’s always been like that.”

Javert doesn’t respond, just looks out at the alleyway.

He takes a drag of his cigarette. “You don’t like me.”

“How do you know?”

“Heard you talking to Jean.” He sighs, adjusting his leg. “I don’t care, honestly. A lot of people don’t like me.”

“You’re too competitive with Cosette,” Jeanne murmurs.

“I’m competitive with everyone. You don’t like me because I’m a cop. It’s fine. I don’t give a fuck, as I said.”

She looks over at him. “How do I know you’re treating him well?”

“You can’t. You could ask, but I could lie.”

“Jean said you can’t lie, and I trust him.”

Javert opens his mouth, tries to respond, but he can’t think of something to say.

“My leg hurts,” he finally mumbles. He’s finished the cigarette, anyway, and he only needed one. He turns to go inside.

“Wait.” Jeanne says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Javert looks over his shoulder at her.

She pauses, then asks, “do you love him?”

Javert nods.

“And you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him?”

“Never.”

Jeanne releases her grip on him. “Thank you.”

• • •

Goodbyes are quiet, tender. For Valjean and Jeanne, at least; Javert simply shakes Jeanne’s hand with a curt nod. She nods in return.

Valjean sighs inwardly.

 

On the following Monday, he gets a text from Jeanne:

_Hey._

_He seems like he’s treating you well._

_what do you mean?_ Valjean types, then puts his phone down to ring up a customer. When he picks it up again, there’s another message.

 _He says he loves you/won’t ever try to hurt you. All I can ask for_.

Valjean smiles. _thanks_

_1 more thing._

_?_

_Tell that bastard he owes me $13 for the cigarettes._


	11. Think Of The Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantine asks Valjean to keep an eye on Cosette for a night, and Cosette *specifically* requests Javert comes along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear I'm so sorry for not updating in so long! I'm currently on spring break, however, and the last chapter should be up within the week.

“All right,” Valjean is saying, though Javert is barely paying attention. “Yeah, I think—Fantine hold _on_ , let me ask him.”

He presses the phone to his chest and turns to Javert. “Are you willing to watch Cosette tomorrow night?”

“What? Why?”

“Fantine and Simplice are going dress shopping,” Valjean replies. “They need someone to watch Cosette.”

“You do it.”

The two of them are lying in bed. Valjean has been chatting with Fantine over the phone, while Javert has his head in his lap. He’s scratching Celia’s ears. He’s been growing fonder of the feline these past few weeks, he finds.

“Cosette specifically asked if you could come too,” Valjean says. He pulls the tie from Javert’s hair and begins to run a hand through it.

“Fine,” Javert mumbles, closing his eyes. 

Valjean brings the phone up to his ear again. “He’s okay with it. I—oh?”

“‘Oh’ what, Jean?”

“The Thénardier girls will be there,” he says quietly. “Cosette is having a sleepover. Are you okay with that?”

“As far as I’m aware, Éponine and Azelma had no control over their father’s decision to try and murder me. I could not care any fucking less.”

Valjean laughs. “We can do it, Fantine,” he says into the phone. “See you tomorrow.”

He puts the phone on the bedside table. Then, gently, he lifts Javert from his lap and slides into a reclining position. Javert blows an irritated breath through his teeth, shifting so his head lies in the crook of Valjean’s shoulder.

Valjean hums. “This position makes it rather difficult for me to keep messing with your hair, you know?”

“Hm.” Javert closes his eyes. A moment later, he feels Valjean pull him onto his chest. “Hey!”

“Just making it easier for my arm,” Valjean replies softly, and indeed, Javert soon feels the man’s calloused fingers combing through his hair. He sighs.

“Oh, my God,” Valjean says. His voice is almost incredulous.

Javert arches an eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s nothing, I just… I didn’t think you’d like having me touch your hair,” Valjean murmurs. “Remember the first time I saw it down? I said it looked adorable and you huffed and put it up.”

“A lot’s changed since then.”

“It has.”

Valjean grows quiet, though it isn’t a quiet born of anger—not that Javert has much to compare it against, of course. Rather, it seems Valjean is simply at peace, content to touch Javert’s hair, massage his scalp as well. And Javert is content to let Valjean touch him so intimately.

He never would’ve allowed this back in November. He finds himself glad that he does now.

A thought occurs to him. Javert ponders it for a moment, wondering whether or not to voice it. It could ruin the moment, but he has to say it. Has to tell Valjean. Because if Valjean, the man Javert loves the most out of anyone he’s ever known, doesn’t understand…

No one will.

“I think it was because I’m trans,” he says simply, eyes still closed.

Valjean’s hand stills in his hair, but only for a moment, and then he continues his caresses. “Do you want to… elaborate? I was going to say explain, but then it felt like I was ordering you to and I don’t want to force you to talk about it if you’re not comfortable and—“

Javert snorts. “It’s fine, Jean. Just let me talk for a moment.”

“Sure.”

He takes a deep breath, wondering how to go about this. Then he plunges into an explanation.

“All my life, ever since I realized I was trans, people have been bitchy about my hair,” he tells him. “I’ve always worn it long, ever since I was a kid, and—I like it long. But they’d call me names, shit I don’t want to talk about. Someone said I was just a woman looking for attention once.”

He’s stopped petting Celia, and she butts his hand with her head. Javert resumes stroking her.

“Eventually, when I was twenty-nine, I cut it off,” he mumbles. “It hurt to do, almost, but I thought it would make it better. It did for a little bit. But then I was missing my hair again, and not having it hurt worse than having it and getting attacked for it. I only started growing it out again when I was thirty-four. So hearing you say it looked adorable—it felt for a minute like I was a kid again, pretending to be something I’m not. That’s why I was angry.”

Valjean’s voice is rough. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I… Javert…”

“It’s _okay_. You didn’t know, didn’t even know I was trans.” He shifts. Then Javert turns his head, burying his face in Valjean’s side, and inhales. He smells like the soap he favors, like sandalwood, and the scent is comforting.

“I like it when you do this,” Javert mumbles, voice muffled. “No one’s touched my hair but me in a long time. I—I don’t think I’d want anyone else touching it, but…”

He shifts closer to Valjean, pressing himself as close as possible. Valjean is warm and soft and for now, he’s all the world is. All that is needed. 

“I love you,” Javert breathes. “I love you, so much, and I want to keep loving you. I love the way you smell and your kind eyes and your voice and how you’re touching my hair, right now, and I don’t want things to ever change.”

He can’t bring himself to open his eyes and look Valjean in the face. Valjean is silent, and Javert feels his hand leave his hair, feels him push Javert from his shoulder and his side. The bed creaks, and Javert feels his stomach drop.

But then he feels a pair of muscled arms wrap themselves around his sides. One hand buries itself in his hair, and the other begins to caress his back gently.

He feels Valjean press a kiss to his forehead. Then to his brow, to his cheek, to his nose and eyes, and suddenly Valjean is kissing his face over and over again. His touch is so gentle, so tentative. Like a young boy, kissing his love for the first time, even though they’ve lain in the same bed together for months. Javert feels the sting of tears in his eyes.

Valjean is kissing him everywhere, everywhere but his mouth, and Javert yearns to kiss him back. He opens his eyes to see Valjean’s hazel ones are closed, brow knit. Javert brings a hand up to smooth that worried brow.

“I love you too,” Valjean whispers. “I don’t ever want to let you go. I… _Dominik_.”

Normally Javert would stiffen, bristle beneath the touch, but the name sounds like poetry from Valjean’s lips. He finds himself crying.

“Did I ever tell you why I chose that name?” he manages. Valjean shakes his head and keeps kissing him.

“It’s the masculine form of my deadname,” Javert whispers. “My—my mother has trouble with her memory. I thought if I chose a name similar to my old one, she’d remember.”

He wraps his arms around Valjean. His chest and his thigh hurt, but barely so, and he ignores them. This is so achingly familiar to New Year’s, and yet it is not. New Year’s, they were drunker than either of them had either been, their desire for each other spurred on not only by love but by drink. Tonight, they are sober. Even with no alcohol clouding his mind, Javert still yearns for Valjean’s touch. And Valjean, it seems, wants the same.

Tonight, they are more intimate than they ever could have been on New Year’s.

“It means ‘of the Lord’,” Javert breathes. Valjean’s cheeks glisten, and he wipes the tears from them.

Valjean’s voice is hoarse. “I… I know that you are not religious, and I don’t ask you to be.” He presses a kiss to Javert’s temple. “But you… I believe that God has delivered you to me. From the river, from Thénardier’s knife.” A kiss to his cheek. “And I am so, so grateful that They have done so. That you are—“ his voice breaks. “ _That you are in my life_.”

Javert cannot answer him. He continues to wipe Valjean’s tears away, throat choked with his own.

“You are crying,” Valjean murmurs.

“Yes.”

Then Valjean dips his head, kissing away the tears, and Javert closes his eyes. He pulls Valjean closer to him, up against his chest, but even that is not enough. He slides his hands under Valjean’s shirt.

The man stills. “Dominik, I, I don’t want to—“

“I know,” Javert whispers. “I just want to be as close to you as I can. Please, I—I’ll take mine off too. And just shirts.”

Valjean seems to consider this a moment. Then he nods, and Javert feels something like a smile break across his face.

He takes the hem of Valjean’s t-shirt in hand, helping him pull it over his head. Valjean shoves it aside. Javert runs a hand over his arms.

He’s seen Valjean shirtless many times before, of course. The man isn’t shy in the least. But tonight, Javert takes the time to study him, to drink it all in. The copper of his skin, peppered with white hair. The muscular curves of his arms. The round softness of his stomach which Valjean mutters complaints about, but Javert finds divine.

He finds Jean Valjean divine entirely.

“Now you,” Valjean says gently. Javert lifts his arms reluctantly as Valjean pulls the tank top off him, closing his eyes. He does not believe he has ever been shirtless in front of Valjean before. And now… now he has bared himself. Javert is highly aware of the chest he keeps hidden, now. How long it is, the unnatural jut of his bones beneath his skin. The bandages on his abdomen.

The scars that run along his pectoral muscles.

He feels hands touch them gently, and he opens his eyes. Valjean is looking at him with a reverence that should only be reserved for God, in whatever form one believes in, or perhaps saints. And Jean Valjean finds him worthy of it.

Valjean presses his face to Javert’s shoulder. “I love you _so much_.”

“Jean,” Javert says hoarsely, and wraps his arms around the man’s warm back, “kiss me. Please.” 

“Of course,” Valjean says. His gaze is tender as he lifts his head, eyes still wet. And then he is pressing his mouth to Javert’s, and holding him, and Javert is lost.

He would stay like this forever if he could, letting Jean Valjean explore his skin and mouth at the same time, safe in his embrace. Valjean is warm and Javert soaks it up as a plant soaks up sunlight. Forever grateful, lost in his admiration and love.

He does not know how long they kiss. They break apart occasionally to murmur love, and devotion, and each other’s name, and then they lean forward again. He tastes tears, learns what Valjean’s mouth tastes like. By the time they separate for good, Javert is exhausted.

He is still just as enamored with Valjean.

Valjean reaches out, tucking a lock of hair behind Javert’s ear. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

He smiles, wondrous. “You didn’t deny it.”

“I’m too happy to argue with you,” Javert murmurs, and Valjean’s hazel eyes sparkle.

“Do you mind if I switch the light off?”

Javert shakes his head no. It takes only a moment, Valjean reaching across to the side table. And in that moment, Javert studies him with awe, watches that muscled form twist and stretch. He could break Javert so easily. Fling him like a rag doll. Instead, he chooses to hold and kiss him, murmuring love.

Javert does not know how much he deserves it.

The room in plunged into darkness and then Valjean is back, wrapping his arms around Javert and bringing him close. They fall asleep like that.

As he drifts off, Javert thinks he hears the words _Dominik_ and _love_ murmured again. A hand smoothes his hair. He smiles.

• • •

Valjean wakes to sunbeams spilling through the open window. Javert is still asleep.

The morning sun sets Javert’s hair and skin alight and for a moment, Valjean is not quite sure if he is looking at a man or an angel. He sighs. He is content to lie here and watch his partner’s face, blissful in sleep as it rarely is in waking.

The quilts have slipped from around their shoulders to their hips, leaving him free to look his fill of Javert’s body. He is lithe, graceful. Valjean meant it when he told him he was gorgeous. He presses his face to the skin between Javert’s neck and shoulder and inhales his scent.

Javert wakes a while after him. How long after, Valjean doesn’t know and does not want to. He only realizes when he looks up to find those blue-gray eyes watching him.

“Didn’t think you were awake,” Valjean whispers.

“I wasn’t.”

“Mm.”

Javert begins to caress Valjean’s back. His hands are clumsy, unpracticed, but Valjean smiles and closes his eyes anyway. The feeling of Javert’s hands on his skin, moving gently…. that is soothing enough.

They lie abed for hours. The cat, forgotten the night before as the two of them grew passionate, makes her way between them. She settles between their chests. Valjean laughs. Javert smiles toothily.

Only when the clock strikes 11:00, demanding Valjean rise so he may appear at the flower shop, does he pull himself from the sheets reluctantly. Javert simply sits up and watches as he dresses. Valjean looks back to see he is holding Celia in his arms.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asks.

Javert settles himself back onto the pillows. “Not yet.”

“I’ll leave something on the table. You’ll likely have to warm it up, but you’re fine with microwaves.” Valjean walks over, presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I’m afraid your leave might be making you lazy, love,” he teases. “Is that possible?”

Javert smirks up at him. Valjean notes, with some satisfaction, that the circles under his eyes have faded. He straightens and moves to put his socks on.

• • •

Javert takes the rest of the day at the slowest pace he quite possibly ever has. He falls back asleep with Celia on his pillow, waking when the clock strikes noon. Then he lays abed a while longer, remembering last night. Finally he drags himself out of bed.

He showers. Shaves and dresses. Valjean has left a meal of pancakes on the table, and Javert is left wondering how the man found the time to cook them. After he eats, he feeds the cat, petting her as she gobbles down the food.

“I have not grown lazy over this leave,” he tells her. “You are growing pampered.”

Celia, naturally, does not answer.

He spends the day watching banal sitcoms on Valjean’s laptop, Celia purring in his arms. The shows are tedious, hardly funny, and Javert avoids the ones about police officers. He finds a comedian’s specials under Valjean ’s recently watched and watches all three. They’re funnier, but Javert wonders how much funnier they’d be if someone else watched them with him. He’d prefer Valjean, but he’d be comfortable with Fantine or Simplice, or even Fauchelevent.

He stills. Has he grown to have friends, these past months?

Javert pushes the thought away.

Valjean returns just as Javert finishes the third special. Either he opens the door so quietly that Javert doesn’t hear him, or Javert is so enthralled in the show that he doesn’t notice him until Valjean speaks.

“Have you been watching television _all day_?”

“No,” Javert says defensively. “I also ate breakfast and lunch. I’d have reviewed some of the cases Chabouillet gave me, but it gets boring. The reading makes my head hurt, as well. The letters don’t always make sense.”

“Is it possible you have dyslexia?” Valjean asks, brow furrowed.

He considers it. “Perhaps.”

Valjean plucks the laptop from the table. “We’ll have to—good Lord, this thing is at 9 percent. Do you know where the charger is?”

“No.”

He sighs, but he’s smiling too, and Javert feels his heart lift a little. Valjean sits across from him.

“Simplice and Fantine are expecting us in about half an hour. Have you showered?” he asks. Javert lifts an eyebrow.

Valjean laughs. “Of course you have. Cosette’s really looking forward to us being there, apparently.”

“This should be fun,” he mutters. He’s stopped petting Celia, and she _mraows_ in protest. Valjean reaches for her.

“Are you sure you want to go? I can say you leg was hurting or something.”

“I don’t want you lying on my behalf,” Javert replies. He sighs. “Children just… unnerve me. I’ve never been good around them, even when I was a kid myself.”

Valjean chuckles, and the sound is like honey. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

 

When they get to Simplice and Fantine’s apartment, Azelma Thénardier is already asleep on the couch, while Éponine and Cosette chatter over an elaborate set up of toys. Fantine cannot seem to find her keys, so Simplice explains the rules.

“Bedtime is 10:00,” she tells them. “10:30 if they’re good. They’ve already had dinner, although Azelma slept through it, so she might get hungry later.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “What else—oh.”

Simplice sighs. “Cosette has a fondness for the hair dye kit Fauchelevent gave her at Christmas.” She points to the girls, and Javert notes that the tips of Cosette’s hair have been dyed a pastel blue. “It’s of surprisingly good quality, but unless either girl mentions it, do _not_ bring it out.”

Valjean nods. “Naturally.”

“It stains very, very easily,” Simplice says morosely. “I lost my favorite blouse.”

“Found the keys!”

Fantine appears at Simplice’s elbow, clutching the car keys triumphantly. She grins. “Have fun with them tonight. Cosette’s been talking all week about how Éponine wants red hair.”

Valjean slowly looks down at his shirt, a white button-down. Javert and Fantine snicker.

Cosette runs over, clutching her doll. “‘Ponine was wondering—are you going?” she asks her mothers. Fantine nods.

“We’ll be back soon,” Simplice says, and picks the girl up with surprising strength. Cosette giggles, and Fantine kisses her cheek.

“Besides,” Simplice confides as she places Cosette in Valjean’s arms, “you get to annoy Javert the entire time we’re gone.”

Javert expects Cosette to giggle, but she raises her eyebrows haughtily instead. “Annoying people is beneath me,” she says sternly.

Valjean laughs. “Now _that_ was an excellent impression of him.” He glances at Fantine. “You’ll be back before 10:00, hopefully?”

“Hopefully,” Fantine says. She glances at Simplice. “I—never mind.”

“Never mind what?” Simplice asks curiously, but Fantine is ushering her out of the apartment.

“We’lseeyouguyslaterbye!”

She shuts the door behind her.

Javert walks over to an armchair, leaning on his cane, and Valjean sets Cosette down.

“You said Éponine was wondering about something,” he asks. “What was it?”

“It was a police question,” Éponine proclaims. Valjean blanches, but the child continues. “Can the police arrest anyone?”

Javert examines the head of his cane rather than look at quite literally anyone else in the room. “No. You need reasonable cause to arrest someone, evidence that they actually committed a crime. Sometimes a confession.”

“So Cosette’s police officer can’t just arrest my soldier, right?”

“Why does she want to arrest your soldier?”

“Because your soldier killed one of my soldiers,” Cosette says matter-of-factly. She points to a fallen doll. “So my police officer gets to arrest your soldier!”

Éponine throws her arms up. “That’s how war works, ‘sette!”

“No it doesn’t!”

“Does too.”

Cosette whirls around to face Valjean. “Papa, you said my cousins were in a war. How does war work?”

Javert watches gleefully as Valjean shifts awkwardly. The man coughs.

“I’ve never been to war, Cosette. I don’t know how it works,” he says. Cosette’s face falls. “And maybe you shouldn’t play… war.”

“It’s very violent,” Javert adds.

Cosette and Éponine look at each other a long moment. Éponine begins to clear her dolls up, and after a second, Cosette does as well.

“Let’s play spies,” Cosette suggests. Éponine grins.

The girls begin to build another elaborate set up, and Javert watches curiously. Valjean sits on the couch. Beside him, Azelma shifts, and he looks at her worriedly.

“Should I get a blanket for Azelma?” he asks.

Éponine shrugs. “She can handle it.”

“I’ll get one.”

Javert studies the new arrangement of the toys. Éponine seems to be building a fort of some manner, while Cosette waits eagerly. Éponine finishes, picks up a doll, and the two girls begin to play. They speak in harried whispers. The dolls they hold seem to be fighting. 

“What’s going on here?” Valjean asks, returning with a blue blanket. He throws it over Azelma, and the girl snuggles into it in her sleep.

“My doll is a spy,” Cosette replies, not looking away. “She’s infiltrating Éponine’s castle and—“

“It’s the Castle of Montfermeil, Cosette. Be accurate.”

Cosette harrumphs. “Anyway, my spy’s name is Catherine, and she’s trying to infiltrate the Castle of Montfermeil, but Éponine’s doll is a princess named Ruby and she’s in love with Catherine.”

“She’s upset because Catherine’s trying to kill her dad,” Éponine adds. “Her dad’s a dick, but she’s upset anyway.”

Valjean looks startled, but Javert has heard worse from Éponine. He settles into the armchair as the girls start to whisper again. Valjean asks him if he’d like tea, and he nods. Usually he’d take coffee, but it’s too late.

 _Perhaps this will be easier than I thought,_ Javert muses, observing the children as Valjean walks into the kitchen.

“Why do you have a cane?”

Javert stiffens at the question. Éponine looks up at him expectantly, and he fumbles for a response.

He opens his mouth, but Cosette cuts him off. “He got hurt, ‘Ponine. Like how Ruby’s gonna get hurt if she doesn’t persuade Catherine to leave her dad alone pretty soon.”

Éponine shushes her. “I wanna know more.”

“I… was attacked while I was working,” Javert says quietly. “A man stabbed me three times. I’ve been on leave since the middle of December.”

“It was my dad, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. Éponine sticks her chin out and crosses her arms, demanding an answer wordlessly. Javert clears his throat.

“It was.”

“I heard about it on TV,” Éponine says. She seems almost proud about it. “Gavroche and ‘Zelma were asleep and I was too, but I heard the TV on. Our new mom was watching the story, and I watched from the hallway.”

“Do you like your new mother?” Javert asks. He’s been wondering a little, ever since Thénardier’s wife asked how her children were.

“Yeah, I love her.” Éponine begins to reconstruct the pillow blockade. “Her name is Olivia and she’s pretty young, but I like her hair. She always lets us stay up a little late and answers our questions.” She frowns. “A lot of people don’t answer.”

“Do you miss your parents?” Javert asks. Valjean reenters the living room, holding two mugs, and hands one to Javert. His face is drawn in worry, but Javert ignores him. He’s wondered a little about the relationship between the Thénardier parents and children, in the long hours since the stabbing.

“I don’t miss them at all,” Éponine replies. “They were _mean_.”

“They were.”

Cosette has abandoned her dolls and is now leaning on Valjean’s free arm. “Can we have ice cream?”

“What did your mothers say about it?” Valjean asks. He takes a sip of tea.

“Nothing. They don’t know I know we have ice cream. It’s mint chocolate chip.”

“I don’t know.” He looks over at Javert, smiling. “Should we have ice cream? I think so.”

“You’re a pushover,” Javert calls as Valjean makes his way to the kitchen.

“I’m the fun one,” the man replies. “Wake up Azelma, will you?”

He nods, sliding himself off the chair. Éponine and Cosette have followed Valjean into the kitchen.

Azelma is still dead asleep, and Javert sits beside her, grimacing at an ache in his thigh. She’s about seven, if he remembers correctly; two years younger than Éponine. She’s smaller than any seven-year-old should be.

Javert wakes her as gently as he can. She sits up, yawning, and looks at him with confusion.

“Would you like some ice cream?” he asks. The words sound ridiculous in his voice. Azelma’s confusion only seems to grow, and she wraps the blanket around herself.

Éponine appears. She’s holding a bowl with two scoops of mint ice cream, and licks some from her thumb. “Azelma doesn’t talk a lot.” She places the bowl in her sister’s hands, then sticks a spoon in the ice cream before turning to face Javert.

“When we moved in with Olivia, she noticed that ‘Zelma didn’t act the way most people do and she took her to a doctor,” the girl explains. “They told us that ‘Zelma’s on the autism spectrum an’ she’s mostly nonverbal. It makes sense. She gets nervous real easily.”

“Ah,” Javert says.

Éponine clambers up onto the couch beside her sister. She nudges Azelma’s gaze. “This is Javert. He’s watching us tonight because Simplice and Fantine went dress shopping. He’s Jean’s boyfriend.” She grins. “Javert’s big and kinda scary, but he arrested Dad and Mom and made it so we can live with Olivia.”

Azelma smiles, ducking her head down. Javert frowns.

“I’m not scary,” he protests, as Cosette and Valjean return. Valjean hands a bowl of ice cream to Éponine, then Javert.

Valjean smiles. “You do have very ferocious sideburns,” he says. Éponine and Cosette giggle as Javert scowls at him.

They eat the ice cream. Azelma, Javert notices, stirs hers with a spoon until it turns into soup, then eats it. It’s… endearing.

“What do you three want to do?” Valjean asks, once the girls have finished eating. Cosette grins wickedly.

“Gimme a moment,” she says, and sprints towards her bedroom. When she returns, she’s carrying the hair dye kit. Valjean’s smile falters.

“We should dye our hair,” Cosette proclaims.

Javert raises an eyebrow. “Your mother didn’t seem too fond of that idea.”

“Which one?”

“Both of them,” Valjean supplies hurriedly.He looks up at Javert. “And I suppose we’ll have to call them and Olivia to make sure they’re okay with it.”

Javert takes the call to Simplice, Valjean, the one to Olivia. The phone rings twice before Simplice picks it up.

“Did they set the apartment on fire?” Simplice asks. He smiles wryly.

“No. Cosette wants to dye her hair, and—“

“Goddammit,” Simplice hisses.

“—we thought we should call you before doing anything,” Javert finishes. “Jean’s calling Olivia, for Éponine and Azelma.”

Simplice sighs. “Fine. Just—do it in the bathroom. Cosette has gone through four different colors since Christmas, and we’ve found it’s easier to wash the dye from the tile than scrub it off carpet. And no green. It looks hideous.”

“Noted.”

When Valjean gets off the phone, he solemnly informs them that Éponine and Azelma are allowed to dye their hair. Cosette and Éponine cheer, running to the bathroom. Azelma follows them. Valjean and Javert exchange a look, then silently walk to the bathroom.

An hour later, and Cosette’s hair is nearly pastel blue in its entirety and Valjean’s hands are stained. Javert struggles to get the red dye to show up in Éponine’s black locks.

He curses. “Why won’t this work, for God’s sake?”

Valjean chuckles. Éponine, however, does not look remotely amused.

“I don’t _get_ it,” she says furiously, crossing her arms. “Cosette’s took ten minutes!”

“Maybe it’s your hair,” Valjean says gently. “Yours is darker than hers.”

“‘Zelma’s worked,” Éponine points out. Azelma looks up at them, pausing the game of cat’s cradle she’s playing with Cosette. Valjean did indeed manage to color the very tips of her hair pink. “Maybe Javert’s just bad at it.”

Javert grunts assent. “Jean, you comb and do it.”

Valjean frowns. “I—“

“Please, Mr. Jean?” Éponine asks. Valjean smiles warmly and moves over; Javert stands and begins to wash the dye from his hands. By the time fifteen minutes have passed, Éponine’s hair is bright red and Javert has not managed to clear a third of the dye from his skin. He scowls and scrubs them more fiercely with soap.

Cosette peers over. “It looks like someone bled in the sink.”

Javert pales. He glances over at Valjean, who looks as though he’s pretending very hard that he didn’t hear. A moment later, Cosette shrugs. She and Éponine skip out of the bathroom as they compare their hair.

Javert curses again and pours on more soap.

 

By the time the clock ticks 10:30, Simplice and Fantine have not yet returned, and they begin the tedious task of putting the girls to bed. It doesn’t take nearly long as Valjean expected; Éponine and Cosette appear exhausted, and it takes less than ten minutes for them and Azelma to crawl into bed. Valjean wishes them a good night and returns to the living room.

Javert is standing in the kitchen, the sink running. Valjean sighs.

“Give up on it,” he says, voice quiet as not to wake the girls. “I have. It’ll wear off.”

“I’m nearly done. Only my fingernails are left.”

“That’ll take even longer.”

Javert glares at him. “It looks like nail polish.”

Valjean nods. He pulls a box of cocoa powder from one of the cupboards, then sets about making hot chocolate. He’s halfway through when he feels a small hand tug at his shirt.

He turns round to see Azelma standing there, her teddy bear in her arms. Valjean kneels down.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, and the girl nods.

“Likely it’s all the sleeping you did earlier today,” he muses. “Are you hungry?” A shake of the head. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” A nod. “Would you like me to hold you?” A pause, and then another nod.

Valjean picks her up gently, hoisting her onto one arm, and cringes at how little she ways. Hopefully, she’ll gain more weight as she’s treated better. He begins making a third cup.

By the time he’s halfway through, Javert has finished washing the last of the dye from his hands and is sitting on the couch. Valjean hands a mug of hot chocolate to Azelma, then balances the other two in his free hand.

“Here,” he says, handing Javert a cup, and sits beside him. Azelma adjusts her position in Valjean’s lap. Her face is buried in her mug.

“She can’t sleep?” Javert asks. He points with his cocoa to Azelma, and Valjean nods.

“I think I’ll let her fall asleep out here and then put her to bed.” He touches the girl’s arm gently. ‘Is that all right?”

Azelma gives a small nod.

They sit quietly, drinking. Javert reaches for Valjean’s hand, taking it, and doesn’t let go. Eventually, Valjean notices that Azelma hasn’t lifted her face from her cup. _She’s asleep_. He slides the cocoa from her hands, setting it on the end table. Then he meets Javert’s eye and points to Azelma. The man nods.

Valjean pulls his hand from his grip and stands. Azelma shifts in his arms, though still asleep, and he carries her to Cosette’s bedroom as softly as he can manage. When he sets her down in bed, she hugs the pillow. Her grip on her bear hasn’t loosened.

“What do you think of kids now?” Valjean asks as he sits down on the couch again. Javert’s brow creases.

“They’re tolerable,” he says thoughtfully. “I’m glad I never had any of my own, but other people’s kids, in measured amounts… they’re sweet. I still do not relish the prospect of Cosette spending two weeks with us after the wedding.”

Valjean laughs and wraps an arm over Javert’s shoulder. His phone buzzes in his pocket; when he checks it, it’s a text from Fantine.

“Fantine took Simplice to get ice cream,” he says. “They’ll be home in ten minutes.” He pockets his phone. “Their first date was at an ice cream parlor, I think. It’s rather sweet.”

“If you’re sentimental.”

Valjean laughs. “I guess I’m sentimental, then.”

He doesn’t mean it to be anything more than a bit of a joke, but Javert’s eyes grow soft. He takes Valjean’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“I like that you’re sentimental,” he says quietly.

Valjean smiles. He closes his eyes, resting his head on Javert’s shoulder. “When we get married, should I take you to look at the stars just before the wedding, then? Or will you take me to Moretti’s?” 

It takes Javert a moment to answer. When he does, he says, “I think the stars would be better. Or we could just kiss in the back of the flower shop again.”

Valjean smiles. They sit like that a while longer, until Simplice and Fantine come home, and then the four of them talk long into the night. They haven’t had a chance to in a while, what with Javert’s stabbing and the wedding. 

• • •

Later, Valjean will realize that he mentioned getting married as though it was inevitable, and Javert replied in kind.

The realization stays in his mind for days afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title doesn't fit half of it, really, but my friend changed the name of my google doc for this chapter to it, and I grew too attached to it.


	12. Something Old, Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantine and Simplice get married at long last.

The rest of January passes in a similar, slow fashion. Valjean manages the flower shop, Javert continues to recover, and Fantine and Simplice prepare for the wedding.

On January 21, Javert leaves the apartment for the first time since watching Cosette, and only the second time since he came home. He spends the day at the courthouse. When Valjean arrives to pick him up, Javert is wearing the most fiendish grin he’s ever sported in Valjean’s presence.

“They convicted him!” he crows, flinging his arms around Valjean’s neck. “Convicted on _all charges_ —Jean, Thénardier will be lucky if he ever spends another day outside of prison.”

“That’s wonderful,” Valjean smiles. Javert’s grin grows even wider.

“Kiss?” he whispers, and Valjean grants the request.

As January slips away, Javert grows stringer. The wounds in his chest are nearly healed by the time February arrives, though the one on his thigh takes more time. He still relies on his cane.

Fantine becomes more frantic as the wedding approaches. Everything is arranged; the dresses, the flowers (bought from La Petit Fleurs, of course), the food. Yet she remains worried. Valjean wishes he could help, but it does not seem to be something he can remedy.

It is something she and Simplice must work out themselves.

• • •

The clock is flashing 12:31 and yet Fantine is still awake, mind unable to succumb to sleep, though her body is begging her to. She twists her fingers together anxiously in her lap. It hurts, so she runs her hands through her hair instead.

She needs to talk to _someone_ , but Simplice is fast asleep. Besides, she’s been hearing Fantine vent all week about the stress of wedding preparations. With shaking hands, Fantine reaches for the phone lying on her bedside table. She doesn’t even need to think about who she’s calling; she’s already hitting the _call_ button under Valjean’s contact and bringing it to her ear. It rings twice before he picks up.

“What do you need?” From the sound of his voice, Valjean is barely awake, but Fantine replies anyway.

“I’m worried,” she mumbles, without preamble. “About the wedding. I just—I’m just afraid that I’m locking Sim into a life she won’t want in a few years, or—“

“Fantine.”

“What?”

“I am not your fiancée,” Valjean says. “I am not the person you should be discussing this with; Simplice is.”

“But I’ve been venting to her about shit all week, and—“

“She’s the woman you’re going to marry in two days. This is about your _wedding_. _Talk to her_.” He yawns. “I am exhausted, anyway, and am not prepared to advise you about weddings.”

“Valjean—“ Fantine attempts, but he cuts her off.

“Talk to Simplice. I’m going to hang up.“

“I will,” Fantine mumbles. “G’night.”

She sets the phone down again, takes a deep breath. Her hands are still trembling.

“Sim?” she asks quietly, tapping the sleeping woman’s shoulder. “Sim, I need to talk to you.”

Simplice blinks awake, yawning, and props herself up on her elbows. “What is it, love?”

“I’m worried.”

“‘Bout what?” Simplice asks gently, and wraps her arms around Fantine’s waist. Then understanding slides onto her face. “Ah. Wedding.”

Fantine gives a single nod. She traces circles on Simplice’s arms absentmindedly.

With Valjean, she’d been ready to talk, been ready to admit her fears. Her shortcomings. But with Simplice…

She doesn’t want to be a failure in Simplice’s eyes.

Simplice nudges her with an elbow. “Talk.”

“Yeah. Right.” Fantine clears her throat and ducks her head down, still wary. “Sim, I… are you sure you want to marry me?”

“What?”

“Are you sure you want to marry me?”

“I do,” Simplice replies, voice soft. “I really, really want to marry you. I promise, I do, and you know how much I hate lying.”

She does. Fantine closes her eyes and tugs at her hair, still anxious. She’s been tugging her hair a lot lately, too much, and Simplice pushes her hand away.

“You’re not going to have any hair left if you keep doing that,” she says. It’s a joke, Fantine knows, but she can’t bring herself to laugh, and Simplice’s brow creases.

“You’re scared,” she murmurs. “What about?”

Fantine can barely say it. She barely even knows why she’s scared.

“I… I think…” her voice breaks. “I think I’m scare that you’re going to leave me.”

“Oh, love.”

Simplice reaches up, pulling Fantine down so that their faces are at the same level. _Her eyes are so beautiful_. Fantine shakes the thought from her mind.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Simplice whispers. “I love you.”

Her eyes sting. “He—he told me that. i know you’re not him, and I love you too, but I just can’t shake it from my mind anyway.” She bites her lip. “He told me that he loved me the day before he left.”

Simplice draws her close, and Fantine slides into her embrace willingly.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Simplice breathes. “I won’t say that, then. I will tell you that I love waking up beside you instead. I like how you snort when you laugh. I love Cosette.”

“He never said stuff like that,” Fantine whispers.

“Shithead.”

She gives a weak laugh, pressing herself closer. Simplice is taller than her by at least five inches, and her size is inexplicably comforting.

“Look.” Simplice laces her fingers in Fantine’s hair. “I’ve been dating you for six years, lived with you for four, been Cosette’s legal guardian for two. I’ve seen him. I’ve seen how he makes you feel, and love, I _never want you to feel like that again_. If it were possible, I would make you smile for the rest of your life.”

“Thank you.”

She smiles softly. Her smiles are always soft. “I… I don’t want to be without you, but if you want, we can call this off. We’ll lose money. God, we’ll lose so much fucking money. But if you are truly unsure about this, we can call this off.”

“No,” Fantine says, quiet. “I want to marry you. But Sim—Sim. how am I even worthy of you?”

“How am I worthy of _you_?”

“You’ve dedicated your life to helping people,” she mumbles. “You worked at a hospital’s ICU, and now you’re a paramedic. I’m just a woman who got pregnant when I was still a kid, who was a—“

“ _It wasn’t your fault_. You didn’t ask for what happened to you, no one does.” Simplice tucks a curl behind her ear. “Do not blame yourself that shit, okay? You do not deserve that guilt, and you are not that woman anymore. You’re a mother, and a business owner, and the woman I love most in the world.”

Fantine closes her eyes. “I’m just worried you’re making a mistake.”

“I’m not. And if you want me to wait, I will wait the rest of my life until you’re ready, okay?”

“I don’t deserve you,” she mumbles. But she’s tired, and Simplice is so _reassuring_ , and she can feel her worries slipping away.

“Oh, but you do, darling.” Simplice smiles sadly. “You deserve the world.”

Fantine buries her face in her chest, closing her eyes. She can feel Simplice wrapping her arms around her. For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, she falls asleep easily, comforted by her soon-to-be wife’s embrace.

When Fantine wakes, it will be with a smile. She will think of Félix Tholomyès no longer.

• • •

Valjean has never seen Javert in his formal uniform. So when he walks into their bedroom on the morning of February 16th, he pauses in the doorway for a long moment. Javert hasn’t noticed him yet, currently buttoning up the jacket, and Valjean is free to look as long as he wants.

The uniform isn’t designed to be attractive, Valjean knows, but the way it’s perfectly fitted to Javert’s frame is enchanting. So is the contrast of the rich dark blue against Javert’s skin, and so is the sheer sight of him in a uniform.

Valjean is finding everything Javert’s worn attractive lately, anyway.

He clears his throat, stepping into the room. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” Javert mutters. He doesn’t look up from his buttons.

“Are… are you wearing gloves?”

“Yes. Why?“ He looks up, then rolls his eyes at Valjean’s expression. “God, Jean, don’t tell me that you really, really like seeing me in a uniform, and that you—“

“You look very handsome, that’s all,” Valjean mumbles, feeling his face warm. He himself is not quite dressed; he’s only in his pants and button-down. “Have you seen the rest of my suit?”

“Closet.”

“Thank you.”

His suit is black, the vest and tie gray-green. Valjean fumbles with the tie. He hasn’t had to wear one in ages, and even then, he’d wear a clip-on. But this is Fantine and Simplice’s _wedding_.

Javert taps him on the shoulder, and he turns round. Wordlessly, the inspector begins to tie the tie in a neat knot.

Valjean closes his eyes. he has a sneaking suspicion that his face is red. Finally, Javert’s hands leave him, and he opens them again.

“Did no one ever teach you how to tie a tie?” Javert asks, pulling his hair back.

He flushes more. “My father did. But I was only eleven, and it was so long ago that I…”

“I’ll teach you sometime,” Javert says dismissively. He gestures to his hair. “Does this look all right?”

Valjean glances at the ponytail. “Can I mess with it a bit?”

“Why not?”

He smiles to himself and pulls the hair tie away. Usually, Javert wears his hair at east somewhat high. Valjean ties it in a low ponytail instead and steps back. “There.”

Javert immediately picks up his cap, pulling it over his face. Valjean laughs.

“You can’t hide under your hat,” he tells him, and pushes the brim up.

Javert raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I like seeing your face.” Valjean grins devilishly. “Your _handsome_ face,” he adds. Javert’s face colors, but he still kisses him for a moment for reaching for his cane.

 

The wedding is scheduled to begin at four o’clock in the afternoon, but the rides have requested that the bridal party arrives much earlier. Both Valjean and Javert are members.

Fantine approached Valjean about it nearly a month ago, asking if he would be her best man.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a maid of honor?” he’d asked, a little dumbstruck. Fantine had put her hands on her hips and explained that as Valjean was her best friend after Simplice, he was best fitted to the role.

Simplice, according to Javert, asked him about fulfilling a best man role months ago, when they were both at the precinct. Since then, he has admitted to Valjean that he doesn’t feel deserving of the role. However, Simplice had apparently told him that she felt more comfortable with him than anyone else, and Javert had reluctantly accepted.

The ceremony is being held at a place Fantine refers to as the once-chapel. It’s a building about a half-hour drive away, once used as a personal chapel for a wealthy family; the current owners now rent it out for weddings and the like.

It’s a rather darling place, Valjean has to admit, as they pull up to it. Snow has fallen in the night, and the once-chapel is covered with a dusting of white. It’s comparable to a postcard. When they enter, Myriel, Fauchelevent, and Cosette are seated in the last two pews. The three look up. Fauchelevent gives a cheery wave.

“Jean!” Myriel says, smiling. “It’s nice to see you.” He nods towards Javert. “And you must be…?”

“Dominik Javert,” the inspector replies. “Though I preferred to be addressed as Javert.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Myriel says, and he _winks_. Valjean feels Javert tense slightly beside him, and he smiles.

“Fantine and Simplice are waiting for you,” Fauchelevent murmurs, his accent more pronounced than usual. Cosette is examining a bouquet with him. “They’re in the basement—down the stairs.”

“Mr. Myriel, look at the bouquet,” Cosette interjects. Myriel turns his attention to her again, and Valjean takes Javert’s hand to lead him towards the stairs.

The majority of the bridal party are waiting in the basement: Dahlia, Zephine and a nurse named Perpetue are doing each other’s hair, while Favourite applies makeup. Simplice is adjusting the bows on the back of Fantine’s dress.

“I thought it was bad luck to see your bride in her wedding dress,” Valjean remarks as he reaches the base of the stairs. Fantine grins.

“That only applies to straight people,” Simplice mumbles, not looking up. “Lesbians are immune to wedding day curses. So are gay men.”

“Good to know,” Javert says wryly. “Then I won’t worry about much when I marry Jean.”

Fantine’s jaw drops a little. “You’re getting married?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Valjean sees Javert go red, and he tries to explain. “We’re not engaged. I mean, we might—“

Favourite laughs from her seat in the corner. “If either of you propose today, on the day of the wedding I’ve been waiting for for five years, I will never speak to you again.”

“It was an attempt at a joke,” Javert says, but his voice is thoughtful. Fantine nods, pointing tohim and Valjean.

“I need to talk to you two,” she declares. “And _only_ Jean and Javert. Everyone else, upstairs.”

“I’m not done with Perpetue’s hair,” Dahlia complains.

“I do. not care about my hair,” Perpetue mutters, and Valjean resists a smile.

Despite Dahlia’s protest, the women do as asked. Valjean takes what was Zephine’s chair, but Javert remains standing.

Simplice glares at him. “Sit. I’m not having you re-injure yourself on my wedding day.”

Javert sits.

“Firstly,” Fantine says, and gestures grandly as Simplice steps away from her, “and I’m fully aware this is something neither of you care about—do you like our dresses?”

She gives a little spin, and Valjean chuckles. Fantine looks exactly as she should: a happy young woman, excited on her wedding day. Simplice is smiling at her fiancée with what can only be described as a radiant grin.

“The dresses are lovely,” Valjean affirms. Javert gives a nod.

Fantine beams. She glances at Simplice, as if to steel herself, and looks back at the men again.

“We wanted to ask your blessing,” she says, obviously nervous. Valjean frowns.

“I don’t see why—“

“It isn’t necessary, but I’d like it.” Fantine looks dow at her hands. “More Jean’s than yours, Javert, truth be told, but we’d still appreciate yours.”

Javert shrugs. “I haven’t even really known you for a year. I do not care.”

Fantine smiles bashfully, and Simplice kisses her forehead.

“I especially wanted to ask your blessing, Jean,” Simplice says in her quiet way. “It’s a ridiculous tradition, the father’s blessing, but I’d like it. My father is giving his blessing as well. But Fantine…”

“You’re my best friend,” Fantine tells Valjean, voice oddly high. “But you’re also the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father too; hell, you’re old enough to be it. And I just… it’s really important to me.”

“I give you my blessing,” he says softly, smiling.

“Thank you,” the two women say. Simplice points at Javert. “Now you.”

Javert looks startled. “Of course. I…I give you my blessing.”

Simplice looks smug, and Valjean wonders why, but Fantine is speaking again.

“Jean, I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

“I’m already your best man,” Valjean says, frowning.

“Yeah, and you’d still be,” Fantine replies. “Once you walk me down, you can sit in the best man’s seat on my side. It’s the same thing as the blessing: you were the one who found me when I was dying of tuberculosis, you were the one who took care of Cosette, you were the one who payed my hospital bills. You were the person who took care of me when no one else would. _You are the closest I’ve got to a father_.”

Valjean nods, swallowing. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Fantine beams, and Simplice leans over her shoulder.

“Also, if you didn’t… Javert would have to walk down the aisle, considering the two of you are our best men.” Simplice narrows her eyes. “And given how heavily he was leaning on his cane by the end of the rehearsal dinner yesterday, I’d rather he stay off his leg as much as possible.”

Javert scowls at her. “You aren’t my doctor. It isn’t your place to worry about my leg.”

“I am _a_ doctor. I have a doctorate, which is more than you do, and I say you need to rest your leg.”

“I—“

“Do you want to dance with Jean at the reception or not?”

Javert turns red. Valjean and Fantine burst into laughter while Simplice smirks.

“Now, do you have the ribbons?” she asks, extending a hand.

Javert looks as confused as Valjean feels. “Ribbons?”

“The _ribbons_.”

“Oh,” he says, and pulls two neatly folded, cream-colored ribbons from his pocket. “These.”

“Yes.”

Simplice takes the them and begins to tie one around Fantine’s left wrist. Valjean watches, no less confused.

“Can someone explain?” he asks, and ignores Javert’s chuckle.

“Old tradition,” Fantine replies. “’Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.’”

Simplice finishes tying the ribbon and offers her own wrist. “Something new is the dresses, something old, our shoes. Something blue is Fantine’s earring and my socks. Something borrowed is the ribbons. They matched the color scheme, and I knew Javert had them.

“Where are they from?” Valjean asks, intrigued. Javert has gone very quiet. Simplice grins.

“He tied his hair with one every time he had to receive a medal,” she says, expression sly. “He buys a new ribbon for each medal.”

“ _Medals_?”

Javert is blushing, and he points quickly to the side of his chest. “Only two,” he mumbles. “For ‘exemplary bravery in the line of duty’ each time.”

“I expect you’ll be awarded another for the business with Thénardier,” Simplice murmurs.

“I will not.”

“Hm.”

“I will not!” Javert insists. The two begin to bicker, Simplice smiling serenely all the while, and Valjean exchanges a look with Fantine. They cannot help but laugh.

• • •

The wedding party doesn’t seem particularly small, although Javert has nothing to compare it to. Fantine’s bridesmaids are Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite; Simplice has Fauchelevent as groomsman—bridesman—and Perpetue and, surprisingly, Allard as bridesmaids. The sergeant is as perplexed with her position as Javert is with his own. He witnesses Simplice impatiently explain to Allard that, after Javert, she is the officer Simplice is closest to, and she would very much like her to be part of the wedding. Allard looks shaken afterwards.

“She’s… angry,” she whispers to Javert. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her angry.”

“She’s just stressed. She’s getting married, after all,” he replies, shrugging.

Allard nods in agreement. “How are you doing, by the way? I haven’t seen you since December.”

“Better.”

Javert means to elaborate, but then Valjean calls “Dominik!”, and he purses his lips. “Excuse me for a moment. Jean needs me.”

“Your name is Dominik?” Allard asks, but Javert is already walking away. He doesn’t get another chance to talk to her before the ceremony.

He, as Simplice’s best man, has the duty of handing a ring to her. Valjean is to give a ring to Fantine as well. Cosette, playing double roles as both flower girl and ring bearer, is determined that they do it perfectly, despite the fact they’ve already rehearsed this.

“I don’t see why both of us have to do this,” Javert mutters. “One of us would suffice.”

Cosette lifts an eyebrow. “Mom and Mama explained it to me. It’s traditional for the groom’s best man to present the rings, but Mom doesn’t like it because she’s trans and it makes her feel bad about herself. But since Papa’s walking Mama down the aisle, she doesn’t want him to have all the responsibilities.” The girl shrugs. “An’ since they’re wuh-luh-wuh—that’s what Mama calls it—they don’t care about a traditional wedding.”

Valjean chuckles. Cosette leans over the pack of the pew and addresses Javert.

“Can I call you Uncle Javert? Mom said you’re kinda like her older brother once, and since she’s marrying Mama and officially becoming my mom, I wanna call you Uncle.”

“Why does she think of me like an older brother?” Javert asks, perplexed. Cosette shrugs again.

“Something about being trans too, an’ how her older brother disowned her but you keep an eye on her at the precinct.”

“I told you were a part of our family,” Valjean murmurs. Javert looks at him with a furrowed brow, and the man smoothes it with a thumb.

There aren’t many guests. An older black woman introduces herself to Javert as Myriel’s sister Baptistine; slightly younger woman waves and says she’s their housekeeper. Simplice’s father arrives, and Simplice tears up slightly at the sight of him. Javert wonders if the man is the onlymember of their family that stood by her when she came out.

Chabouillet, Dumont, and Lavigne show up, all in uniform. Chabouillet has brought his family. The Thénardier children and their adoptive mother arrive at the same time as Jeanne Valjean.

The last guest to show is a young man, only a few minutes before the ceremony, and he looks as though he feels out of place. Fantine greets him warmly, and Javert wonders exactly what their connection is.

“Georges Pontmercy,” Valjean murmurs to him, as Javert’s eyes trail the man to his seat. “He and Fantine lived in the same foster home for about five years. He’s ex-military, so he would move around often, and now he lives a considerable distance away.”

“Ah. Pontmercy?”

“Estranged from Marius, who’s being raised by his grandfather. We don’t talk about it around Cosette.”

The ceremony itself is short, quiet, and beautiful. Javert has not dubbed many things in his life beautiful.

Cosette is positively overjoyed to be flower girl and ring bearer. The bridesmaids and Fauchelevent process after her; Javert stands to let Allard, Perpetue, and Fauchelevent into his pew.

Valjean escorts Fantine down the aisle first. The pride on their faces is plain to see; it is matched to the proud look Simplice’s father wears as he walks his daughter down. Simplice is positively beaming.

When Myriel begins the ceremony, Simplice and Fantine don’t try to hide their grins. Javert finds himself smiling as well.

• • •

The reception is taking place in the ballroom of a nearby hotel. Cosette begs to ride in Valjean’s car on the way; her mothers grant the request, and she talks excitedly all the way there. Javert, surprisingly, keeps a running conversation with her.

The ballroom is decorated beautifully. Valjean recalls that Dahlia, Cosette, Zephine, and Perpetue volunteered for the task, though Dahlia said at the rehearsal dinner that Perpetue did most of the work while the nun blushed. They’ve done a fine job, in any case.

Valjean has been to exactly one wedding prior to this; his sister’s. She had decided to forgo a reception, and as a result, he has no idea what to expect.

This one seems to begin with eating and drinking and socializing. Fantine and Simplice have dragged Valjean and Javert to the center table. Valjean spends most of the short period talking to Simplice’s father. He was once a pilot, now retired, and Valjean is greatly intrigued by every story he tells.

Javert is scribbling something down on napkins, though his fellow officers have descended upon him. Valjean catches questions about his health, as well as about his relationship with Valjean. Javert responds to each in his usual clipped way.

When the other officers have moved on, Valjean notices that Chabouillet has come to speak with Javert. Valjean refocuses his attentions on his conversation with Simplice’s father.

Suddenly Fantine is standing, hitting her glass with a spoon. The chatter dies out.

“This is usually the part of the reception where the best man gives a speech about the groom, apparently,” she says, voice loud. “Since Sim and I both have a best man, and since it’s rather fun to mess with the structure of a traditional wedding, we asked both of them to give speeches. They can decide who goes first.”

She sits down with a grin, takes Simplice’s hand in her own. Valjean casts a glance towards Javert, the words _I can go first_ ready in his mouth, but the inspector has already reached for his cane. He pushes himself to his feet, gazing at the napkins in his hand.

“I don’t think many of you know me,” Javert begins, and his voice is terribly quiet. Valjean hits his arm gently; he raises his voice.

“I’m Inspector Ja—Inspector _Dominik_ Javert, and I’m Simplice’s best man. Those of you who do know who I am, know I am not… particularly eloquent. This will be brief.

“I am Simplice’s senior by eighteen years. I am a police officer, and she is the paramedic who takes care of us, and the criminals, if we are hurt. She is very good at her job.”

Javert pauses now, closing his eyes for a moment, as if he’s making a decision. When he speaks again, his words come out in a rush.

“Both—both Simplice and I are transgender, and we are both gay,” he says, a little quietly. His fingers are tapping nervously on his cane. “I… I did not truly know her until her until this year. I knew her, yes, she had fixed my injuries multiple times. But this year, I came to know her, and I am very glad that I have. She is an excellent neighbor, an excellent friend, an excellent mother, and, I expect, an excellent wife.”

“She is an excellent doctor as well. In December, I was stabbed. The paramedic in the ambulance was Simplice; I told her I wanted to see my partner a final time before death. She said I would not die.” Javert raises his cane, one of his wicked smiles on his face, producing laughs from the guests. “I did not die.”

“Simplice is kind. In the months that I have—that I have grown closer with her, this is something I have found time and time again. But she is not simply kind, she is honest as well, and when she tells you something, you can trust her. You can trust absolutely whatever she says.”

“I…” Javert looks down again. Then he crushes the napkins in his hands and turns to Fantine. “Fantine, when Simplice tells you she loves you, she means it with all her heart. I can’t speculate on your relationship, and do not want to. But I think that the two of you will be very happy together, and I wish you happiness in this new chapter of your life.”

He sits down again, color high on his face. There’s applause; based on Javert’s expression, it is something he didn’t expect. Simplice is smiling widely.

Javert has dug his fingernails into his palm, Valjean notices. He uncurls the man’s fingers gently, then stands himself and produces a folded copy of the speech he’s written.

He’s been working on this ever since Fantine asked him to be best man, asked him to write a speech. Valjean’s hands are shaking. The speech is three pages long, single spaced.

He takes a deep breath, then begins to read it aloud.

Valjean keeps his eyes glued to the pages the entire time. He has never been one for public speaking, nor one for crowds. His hands do not stop shaking.

The final page is the most personal, the one he has worked over time and time again, and he has to take a deep breath before he reads it.

“I have known you for eight years, Fantine,” he says quietly. His throat is rough. “You have admitted to me that I have seen you at your worst and at your best. I have seen you cry, I have seen you laugh, I have seen you angry. Cosette calls me Papa, and today, you told me that I am the closest you have to a father.”

“But I… I know that you are beginning a new part of your life. You began it six years ago, truth be told, and this is a part of your life I cannot share with you. There will be memories you make I will not share, laughter I will not hear, and tears I will not see. And I am finding, every day, that I am more and more all right with that.”

Valjean clears his throat before continuing. Fantine’s eyes are shining.

“You have chosen to continue on with a wonderful woman, one whom you absolutely deserve. Fantine, you are kind, and you are brave, and you are gentle, and you are out-spoken. You are a hundred other things as well. You are one of the most amazing women I’ve met, and Simplice is lucky to have you.”

“Today, you have looked so _happy_. And that is a happiness I envy and congratulate you for.

You have chosen to continue in this life, have chosen to for the past years, and it makes you so happy. It is something you deserve,” he finishes, and sits immediately.

It is not a strong note to end on. But he’s been working this speech for weeks, and Valjean has found that there _is_ no strong note to end on.

This isn’t an ending, he muses. This is a beginning.

Fantine is grinning, and so are Simplice and Cosette, and the other guests are clapping. Valjean ducks his head down, face warm. He has never quite liked attention.

But Fantine is pulling him from his chair, wrapping her arms around him. She is crying and Valjean finds he is too.

“Thank you so much, Jean,” Fantine whispers. “Thank you for this, and for everything else you’ve done for me. Thank you.”

Valjean lifts his arms awkwardly and hugs her back.

He has never liked attention, but if it makes Fantine happy, it is something he will bear.

 

The rest of the reception is far less stressful. It doesn’t seem to have a fixed schedule, thankfully, so Valjean is free to stay seated and watch as Simplice and Fantine toss their bouquets, as Cosette, Éponine, and Chabouillet’s son chase each other around the ballroom, as Favourite hands Georges Pontmercy four shots, which he downs with astounding speed.

The cake is cut and distributed. Valjean eyes Cosette suspiciously as she eats exactly three servings. He’ll be taking care of her tonight and tomorrow and the next two weeks, as her mothers take their honeymoon, and Cosette does not react well to sugar. Sure enough, she is soon pulling Éponine from her chair and around the ballroom in some semblance of a dance. Valjean sighs and picks up his fork.

Javert is quiet most of the time. Valjean rests his head on the his shoulder, and the man brings up an arm to cup his back. Apparently Javert has either forgotten that his fellow officers are present, or he no longer cares about hiding their relationship. Valjean finds he far prefers the latter.

As the evening progresses, the chairs are cleared from part of the ballroom. Fantine and Simplice take their place in the middle of what shall be the dance floor. A slow waltz begins, and they dance. At one point, Fantine rests her head on Simplice’s chest; Simplice smiles and closes her eyes.

It is rather sweet.

After the waltz, which Simplice specifically selected, the music turns into more popular, livelier songs. Valjean cannot name half of them. Cosette pulls Éponine onto the floor, and gradually, more and more people are dancing. Soon, he and Javert are the only two still seated.

He reaches for Javert’s hand. “We should dance.”

“Can’t,” Javert mumbles, and lifts his cane in proof. Valjean smirks.

“You can lean on me,” he says, and pulls him to his feet.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Javert says, as they step onto the floor.

“Neither do I. But I think…”

He puts one of Javert’s hands on his waist, puts his own on the man’s shoulder, and then joins their free hands.

“We stretch our hands out together like this,” Valjean says, “and then we turn in slow circles. No one will be able to tell the difference.”

Javert still looks miffed, and a little confused as well, but he complies. Their steps are slow to match the song. It’s rather slow, somewhat sad. Valjean cannot help but smile anyway.

“Did you write your speech at the reception?” he asks quietly, closing his eyes.

“No. Yes. I had written a better one, but forgot it at home.”

He smiles. “I doubt anyone will ask you to be their best man again, so you won’t have to worry about it happening next time.” Valjean opens his eyes slightly. “It was good, anyway.”

Javert looks surprised. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you.”

They grow quiet for a bit, turning slowly. For once, Valjean isn’t self-conscious, even in the full sight of everyone.He’s happy to just be _here_ , to be dancing in Javert’s arms in silence. He can feel Javert tapping the slow beat of the tempo on his waist, and he smiles.

Valjean closes his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, he lays his head on Javert’s chest, just as Fantine laid hers on Simplice’s.

“Javert?” he murmurs.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He looks up through his lashes to see that Javert is smiling. They keep turning, the music keeps going, and they dance the rest of the night.

As they do, it occurs to Valjean that he wouldn’t trade this for the world. 


	13. Epilogue

Three years later, they are dancing in the same ballroom on a warm night in April.

This time, Valjean is wearing a wedding suit, as well as a rose boutonniere. Javert has foregone his formal uniform for a suit of his own.

This time, they are the only two on the dance floor.

They are dancing to the same song they danced to at Simplice and Fantine’s wedding, because it was the first song they ever danced to, and Valjean is sentimental and Javert loves that he is sentimental.

Cosette is twelve years old, but not too old to be a flower girl. Valjean cried when Fantine gave her best man’s—best woman’s—speech. She and Simplice are sitting together, smiling, but Valjean has eyes for only Javert.

Javert’s leg has healed now, though he walks with a slight limp. His hair is grayer, longer, and Valjean has a habit of braiding it when they lie in bed. He has worn it down because Valjean insisted he did.

This time, the guest list is nearly the same, only Javert’s mother is here. She is crying. Valjean’s nieces and nephews that would come are present as well. Valjean finds he does not care that there are some missing.

He and Javert have been taking dancing lessons for the past three months, and they do not trip over each other’s feet. Javert is still tapping out the tempo on Valjean’s waist.

This time, Valjean not only has the roses on his back, but a sunflower on his left forearm, the first flowers Javert ever bought him. Javert has a tattoo of his own as well, convinced by Valjean to get it a year ago. It is the constellation Libra, the scales, and lies on his right bicep.

Javert’s blue eyes are shining. Valjean cannot tear his gaze away from those eyes. 

There are things that have changed, things that have remained the same. The one thing that has remained truly constant is their happiness.

This time, they are wearing rings of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for your lovely comments! They were very inspiring, and truly helped me to complete this fic. It's been wonderful writing this.


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